


All of Us Honorable

by dwellingondreams



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amberly (ASOIAF), Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Death, Cousin Incest, Cousins, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Family, Family Drama, Family Feels, Fantasy, Gen, House Baratheon, House Rogers, House Stark, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Implied/Referenced Torture, Miscarriage, Mythology References, Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, Robert's Rebellion, Sexual Assault, The North (ASOIAF), The Stormlands (ASOIAF), Time Skips, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-13 06:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 65,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28773798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwellingondreams/pseuds/dwellingondreams
Summary: In the aftermath of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Branda Stark, daughter of a mountain clanswoman and a wandering wolf, finds herself wedding a relatively minor lord of the Stormlands, while her younger sister is betrothed to their cousin Rickard, heir to Winterfell. While Branda finds love in her 'lesser' match, taking up residence at the mysterious Amberly, Aerys Targaryen takes the throne, Rickard Stark begins to dream of a southern alliance, and Branda's adventurous children, always in the shadow of their prideful cousins, find themselves scattered across a realm edging closer and closer to civil war.
Relationships: Arya Flint/Rodrik "The Wandering Wolf" Stark, Benjen Stark & Lyanna Stark, Benjen Stark & Ned Stark, Benjen Stark & Rickard Stark, Branda Stark & Lyarra Stark, Brandon Stark & Ned Stark, Brandon Stark & Rickard Stark, Cassana Baratheon/Steffon Baratheon, Harrold Rogers/Branda Stark, Lyanna Stark & Ned Stark, Lyanna Stark & Rickard Stark, Lyarra Stark/Rickard Stark, Ned Stark & Rickard Stark, Robert Baratheon & Stannis Baratheon, Stannis Baratheon & Rhaelle Targaryen, Stannis Baratheon & Steffon Baratheon
Comments: 299
Kudos: 180





	1. Branda I

**Author's Note:**

> This fic updates on Fridays.

261 AC - AMBERLY

“Do you think there are wolves this far south?”

Jorah doesn’t wait for a response; he cups his hands to his mouth and howls, prompting several snickers, a few bemused glances, and more than one sharp glare. The warble of his high child’s voice quickly dissolves into the dense, lush green wood around them. 

Branda scoffs; Jorah is eight years old, heir to Bear Island, and awfully prideful of it. His mother is her own Flint mother’s younger sister, and so they are cousins. His father, Jeor, who has always been as crotchety as a man thrice his age, and his mother, Jonelle, spoil him terribly, for he is their only living child, after three miscarriages and two daughters dead in the cradle. 

Jorah turns his freckled face to her; he’s a husky, short boy, would verge on plump if not for the lean, sparse diet of his homeland, and they don’t ordinarily get along, but right now Branda is the only one willing to offer him a real smile, even if it’s exasperated. She does feel badly for him, though not as badly as she feels for herself. 

He’s the only child in their party; unless you count herself, her sister, and Rickard, and Branda rather doubts to think of any of them at children, at this point, even if their mothers and fathers insist on treating them as such. 

Branda herself is eighteen; they celebrated her name day during their brief stay in King’s Landing, after they got off the ship from White Harbor. 

They were only in the city for a few days, so Branda did not see nearly as much of it as she might have liked, but the inn they stayed at was pleasant enough, one her father knew well; she could tell by the pinched expression on her mother’s face when he felt into easy conversation with the innkeeper and called several of the older serving wenches by name. He must have stayed there before the crossing, to fight in the war last year. 

Even now, in King’s Landing, that is all anyone can talk about; the war, the Blackfyre Rebellion- well, the latest Blackfyre Rebellion. Branda thinks it is five, now? But more often than that, they call it the War of the Ninepenny Kings, for the motley crew of merchant captains, sellsword generals, and pirate kings, who raised hell up and down Essos before claiming the Stepstones. 

Only then did King Jaehaerys set aside paper and pen and pick up a sword, or so Father tells it, and summoned what seems like all of Westeros to launch across the sea with him and put an end to Maelys the Monstrous, the last Blackfyre, or so they say. 

Father has told her and Lyarra all sorts of fearsome tales about him, how Maelys was a massive, lumbering, brute of a warrior, nearly six and a half feet tall, barrel-chested and broad shouldered, with a head like a slab of rock, with hair white as snow and braided back like a Dothraki horse lord. He had a voice like rumbling thunder and was covered in scars and burns from decades of savagery, and from the side of his neck a tiny, second head sprouted, one that screamed shrilly with him when he uttered his war cries and spurred his great black stallion into battle. 

Father saw him killed, Maelys the Monstrous, in single combat against Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, the noblest knight in the land, though Father is a Stark and thus accordingly has a more tempered opinion of knighthood, though he claims he’s been offered it half a hundred times. 

When Maelys died, he swore, the little head kept shrieking, until a squire lopped it off and held it aloft as a trophy, while ragged cheers echoed along the bloodsoaked shoreline. 

All the battles in Father’s stories happen in the best, most fitting locations; charred and windswept fields of fire, darkened, misty woods ringing with moans and screams, bloodied beaches as lightning flickers and waves roar.

“And this is the sort of story you tell your firstborn on her eighteenth name day?” Mother had scoffed, interrupting the end of his tale, as a serving girl brought over a raisin cake soaked in brandy, the inn’s specialty. “Tales of giddy slaughter? You make war sound a game, Roddy.”

He is always Roddy to her mother, who has known him, Rodrik Stark, the Wandering Wolf, since she was but a girl. When Branda was young there was still warmth to the nickname, and a faint gleam in her blue eyes when she said it. Now Arya Flint just sounds tired.

“I don’t make anything of it,” he’d argued, slicing into the cake and heaping a slice onto Branda’s plate, chucking her under the chin with a fond smile. “Some things set a man’s blood to singing, is all. Even things that grieve and terrify.” 

The Stepstones was not all glory. Her twin nuncles, Bran and Ben, died there. In truth, they were Branda’s cousins, but so much older than her- as her father is the youngest of seven children, and the only one of the seven still living - but she always knew them as her uncles. 

They were not young men and truth be told it was no great shock to lose them in battle; neither were the marrying or siring sort, and both made it clear they had no interest in growing old and feeble, but it was still a bad blow to their elderly mother, Lysara, who lost her own husband Artos nearly thirty years ago, when they were small. 

And to Branda’s grandmother, Lady Melantha, who loved them as if they were her own boys. She only had two children, Edwyle and Jocelyn, by Will Stark before he died fighting the King-Beyond-the-Wall. 

And Edwyle is the father of Rickard, who now says, in that arrogant, self-assured way of his, as he trots up on his gelding, “Wolves would have good hunting here, but they’d shudder at this weather.” He brushes his hair out of his eyes; it’s damp with sweat, and spares a displeased look for the humid forest around them. 

It is early autumn now, but this far south, in the Rainwood, thronged with mist even in the middle of the day, the sun blotted out by the foliage overhead, you would never know it. 

The trees are not so different from what you might find in the wolfswood Branda knows by heart; there are sentinels and pines, oaks, too, and Lyarra has counted three weirwoods over the course of the past few hours of sedate riding, but the cedars, hemlocks, and maples are not as familiar to Branda, nor are the towering redwoods. 

Everything seems larger here, somehow, magnified, swollen with color and water. She keeps thinking it’s drizzling on them, but it’s just moisture from the mist and trees, and in their northern attire, the Starks are sweltering. Branda has shed her cloak entirely and bundled it into one of her saddlebags, and she can still feel sweat trickling down her back. 

She wore one of her lightest gowns for the ride, but a thin wool is still wool, even without any heaving trimmings or fur linings, and she knows her sleeves are sweat-stained and her skirts rumpled from constantly adjusting them to try to get her legs some air. 

Her hair, too, is likely a limpid, damp mess. Branda inherited the cool grey Stark eyes of her father, and his snubbed nose and big ears, but she lacks the long Stark face; she has her mother’s short, square one instead, and her thick, dark brows and dark tangle of hair, hair more inclined to grease than lustre. 

Truth be told, she would ordinarily care little and less what her hair looks like; she was always a ‘boyish thing’ as a little girl, or so her grandmother would tell her, though gods know she tried her best to be dutiful and calm like her sister Lyarra. 

But they are approaching her betrothed’s home, and this week, of all weeks, is when she figures she ought to put that burst of beauty and grace that must be stored up somewhere inside her to good use. She’s sure it’s there. 

Somewhere.

“It is hot,” Lyarra allows, “but these woods are beautiful.” She glances up at the brief patches of blue occasionally visible through the branches and leaves sheltering them, then at Rickard. 

The two of them have been betrothed for years now, and Branda has gotten used to the dull stab of resentment and envy that comes from the little looks that always pass between them. 

She isn’t jealous of Lyarra, exactly- she’s got no desire to marry Rickard, Rick, cousin Ricky, who she once got into a shoving match with over the last lemon cake- but there is something to be said for assurances. Since they were just girls, Lyarra has always known her life’s course. She will marry Rickard, be Lady Stark, and have lots of lovely, long-faced little Stark children. 

She will do so with quiet grace and a firm hand; Lyarra may come across as soft-spoken or even shy, but Branda knows her younger sister better. Shadowcats have velvet soft fur, they say, and that fur is hiding pounds of hard muscle and killing energy underneath. 

Uncle Edwyle looked them both over once they’d flowered; not even a year apart, her and Lyarra, only ten months betwixt them, something that almost killed their mother in the birthing bed, because Father, much as Branda loves him, did not take as much care of he should have, of his hardy but small Flint wife. 

And then old Edwyle declared Lyarra should marry Rickard, and Branda- well, someday she would have ‘as great a match’, herself. 

Six years later, ‘as great a match’ has become something of a private family jape, Branda thinks with a sour edge, though she is trying to be hopeful. 

Uncle Edwyle grew up in the shadow of a regency, a power struggle, for he was just a little lad when his father was killed in battle. And it has made him leery of any potential threats to his own succession. Branda is one such threat. Edwyle is the son of Willam, secondborn son of Beron Stark, and Father is the seventh son of Beron Stark. 

By northern law, inheritance would still customarily pass from the firstborn son to the secondborn son, if the firstborn had no children (and he did not), and to the children of the secondborn son before those of a seventh born son. Yet they all know the Starks have not always been so adherent to inheritance laws. 

Father has always been wild and willful, even verging on rebellious, or so Uncle Edwyle grouses, and has been banished and welcomed back into Winterfell’s fold half a dozen times. 

So Lyarra shall marry Rickard, to neatly tie her back into the main line, and Branda… 

Well, possible betrothals for Branda were dithered over and argued over and then it seemed as though she might be wed to a Blackwood, but then the war broke out, Father went off with a few thousand northmen to fight, and returned with a betrothal for her. 

In the field, he found himself cornered by Spotted Tom the Butcher, a ‘speckly son of a bitch’ who was born in Westeros but made his living hacking men apart across Essos. Spotted Tom shattered his shield, and Father had lost his mount and taken a wound to the leg. 

He felt his strength flagging, when in came a-charging some bold young knight all in black-and-silver, a curious maze on his shield and cloak, flanked by nine unicorns. With axe in hand, he dealt Spotted Tom a mighty blow that sent him reeling, and hauled Father back on his feet. 

They finished off the Butcher together, shoulder to shoulder, alive with bloodlust and the song of battle, and only hours later did Father realize how young he was; a man no older than twenty, tall and handsome, blonde of hair and blue of eye. 

“Ser Osric, of House Rogers,” he named himself. “Lord of Amberly.”

And that was that. Father came back from war with more grey in his thinning brown hair, more scars in his weathered skin, and a marriage for Branda. Nevermind that no one in the North had ever heard of House Rogers before. 

Nevermind that they were not one of the greater houses of the Stormlands. Nevermind that they were the descendants of Andals, not First Men, and at that, only three hundred years a lordly house- mere landed knights before the Conquest. Aegon raised them to lordship for valiant service, and Orys made sure their lands were expanded. 

But still, they were no Baratheons, no Conningtons nor Dondarrions, not even Swanns nor Tarths. 

Mother shook her head and would say no more of it, only that she prayed Branda would not forget her faith in the south, full of slick oils and stuffy incense and gaudy septs, worshipping statues, mere idols, instead of what was true and good, buried in the soil and whispering in the trees. Father told her tales of Ser Osric’s courage, his beauty, his good humor. 

And Uncle Edwyle was, for once, pleased as could be with something to come out of Rodrik Stark’s mouth, ordering the wedding to commence with haste. 

Then, a few short months before they were to depart, word came, much belated, from the Rogers. Osric was dead, killed in a late summer joust; very sudden, very tragic. 

They of course would understand if House Stark did not wish to proceed in this matter, but there was, most fortunately, a second son, only three years younger than his brother, and unattached, in good health, to boot. Ser Harrold Rogers. Would he not suffice?

Yes, the Starks wrote back, begrudgingly. He would. 

“We’re not lost, are we?” Aunt Marna inquires worriedly. A Locke by birth, she is nervous and timid by nature, with a broad, smooth face compared to the rest of the family, and frizzy brown hair always escaping its braids. 

Uncle Edwyle’s health has not been good, these past few years, and she was all a-tizzy to leave her husband, but he insisted, said Branda should not want for women kin around her for the first months of her new marriage. 

That, too, is something of a jape. Branda should have ladies of her own, as a Stark, but who in their right mind would consent to send their daughters so far, halfway across Westeros? What proper northern lord would want his daughters wedding into the rainy, southron Stormlands? 

Fat chance of landing a Baratheon; Lord Steffon is already wed to some Estermont girl. Houses that openly worship the old gods are few and far between. And the travel time alone… it is in a parent’s nature to want their children close, Mother says. To want to be able to visit them regularly. 

Branda blinks hard, and tells herself the wetness in her eyes is just the mist and water trickling down from the leaves above them. 

“We’re not lost,” Father says, though Mother looks skeptical. “I’ve ridden in the Stormlands many a time, and we’re getting closer to the coast, I can smell it.”

“Can you?” Mother inquires, under her breath. “Are you a hunting hound now, too, Roddy?”

He ignores that dig, Father, and spurs his mount forward as he leads their small party through the trees. Himself, Mother, Branda and Lyarra; Rickard and Aunt Marna, Aunt Jonelle and cousin Jeor, and and some two dozen guards of House Stark. A larger party would have been more formal, more impressive, but with a months long journey to look forward to already, Father elected that smaller would be swifter- and cheaper. 

Branda doesn’t know what would be more humiliating. To turn up to some tiny, mildewy little castle with a hundreds strong party of proud and travel-sore northmen, or to show up like this, a great house reduced to two dozen, all sweating through their clothes and sagging in the saddle. 

They’ve been riding since dawn; after traversing the Kingswood they spent a few days in Bronzegate, the only real city in this region, then took the winding road through the mountain pass and then a barge downriver to Stonehelm. 

After a night in town there they ventured forth into the Rainwood, and have pressed on for the past ten days, stopping over in villages and renting out houses when there were no inns, leery of making camp in unfamiliar woods. Branda hasn’t minded the riding; the land has been largely flat, aside from hills here and there, so it hasn’t been a struggle for the horses, and aside from the damp heat, the Rainwood is beautiful, in a strange, alien way. 

There’s been plenty of quietly burbling streams and glassy forest pools to explore, even the odd waterfall here and there, and the game has been plentiful. She’s seen red deer and weasels and otters, wildcats and foxes, even bats flitting about at twilight. There are giant ferns that come up to her chest- though she is not a very tall woman- there are wild strawberry trees, and olives growing, too, though less so in the deepest and wettest parts of the wood. 

There are brightly colored wildflowers along the side of the trails and roads she’s never seen before in her life, and she got a rash up her arms a few days ago picking some, thinking she might dry them out and use them in her rooms at Amberly. And last week, her father and Rickard and half a dozen guards hunted down a wild boar and roasted him over a spit for their supper. 

The boar here tastes different from the ones to the north; sweeter, almost, she thinks. Her mouth waters at the thought. If Branda has a vice, it’s decidedly food, she determined that long ago. Rickard says that stormlanders eat queer things; meat and vegetables on skewers like wildlings, Dornish pastries full of spicy nuts, spinach pies and lamb cooked in pits in the ground. 

Branda doesn’t see what’s so bad about any of that, only Rickard looking down his long Stark nose at it. But he does look to needle at her, and always has; that’s like as not why Edwyle wanted Lyarra to wed his son, and not Branda. Figured she’d be too much bother, always bickering with her husband-to-be. Or gulping down meat pies instead of getting on her bony knees in a godswood like a proper devout and chaste northern wife. 

“We might be lost,” Aunt Marna frets, once Father is well out of earshot. “We should have hired a guide from one of the villages.”

“We should have ridden to Storm’s End instead, and caught a ship from there down the coast,” Rickard says.

“The autumn storms in Shipbreaker’s Bay are not for trifling with,” Mother tells him; Rickard rolls his eyes a little when she’s turned back around in the saddle, but doesn’t argue with his goodmother to be. 

Branda is glad of it, or she’d have had to take him to task for it. Unlike Lyarra, she’s not bound to obey him in six months time, and while she might not be quite as chilling as her willowy, long-necked sister in a quiet fury, she makes up for it in exuberant volume. Lyarra can hiss, but Branda can bellow; she has her father’s voice, lodged somewhere deep in her chest. 

But as yet another damply green day drags on, she does begin to wonder if they might have taken a wrong term somewhere. They haven’t seen signs of another village since the one they stopped at last night, and they’ve been riding for nearly five hours by now. 

Everyone here is used to the saddle, and their horses are well-watered, but she is beginning to wonder if Rickard might have had a point. Surely it would have been much quicker and simpler to take a ship down the coast. Amberly is tucked away in a corner of the northeastern Rainwood, in the shadow of the mountain range, looking out into Shipbreaker Bay. 

“I’m going to ask him if I can see the map,” she overhears Rickard murmur to Lyarra; they’re always having private conversations out of the corner of her eye, her sister and her cousin. It used to drive her mad when she was younger, having to share her sister with Rickard, but now she just tries to ignore it. 

“Wait a bit,” Lyarra is whispering back. “He’s in a mood, I can tell from the way he’s sitting in the saddle. You’ll just get him riled up, and then my mother-,”

Jorah overhears and wastes no time in perking up, cupping a hand to his mouth, and shouting, “UNCLE RODRIK! RICKARD WANTS TO SEE THE MAP!”

Rickard mimes a blow to the back of Jorah’s head, glowering, a few Stark men burst into chuckles, and Branda has to hide her grin as her father turns round in the saddle, outraged at the suggestion that he, the Wandering Wolf, most traveled of them all, might be lost-

Then he turns quickly back around, as the sound of hoofbeats is suddenly apparent. The dense foliage makes it difficult to see men moving through the trees, and the mist muffles sound, so Branda, though unfrightened, is not surprised to see men’s hands stray near their swords, not drawing their weapons, but prepared, in case of bandits preying on outlanders. 

But then the rippling black-and-silver banners are evident through the greenery, and the Stark men ease up. Father manages to replace his scowl with a more neutral look as one of the riders hails them, and Mother murmurs, “Branda, ride at the head,” moving her mare aside so that Branda can spur her mount forward, to ride up alongside her father. 

“Branda,” Father smiles at her, leans over and takes her small hand in his own. Like her mother, she has small hands and feet. Her fingers are not long and graceful like Lyarra’s but shorter and stubbier, though no less deft with a dirk or knitting needles. “Daughter,” he says, “this is-,”

The head rider removes his helm with a sheepish look; “Apologies, my lord Stark,” he says, though Father has never been Lord Stark, much to his relief. “Ser Harrold would have gladly ridden out to welcome you to Amberly lands, but he’s taken an injury, and our maester forbids him riding for the next week, at least.”

Father frowns, and Branda hears Mother suck in a breath, no doubt wondering if another Rogers brother is about to drop dead on them. 

“Not serious,” the man assures them; Branda puts him in his thirties; he’s tall and thin, but not gaunt or frail looking, with prematurely greying hair and a thick but well trimmed beard. “The boy- Lord Harrold turned his ankle, is all.” 

The boy. 

Branda is already picturing some overgrown lout with a a permanently stunned expression; the spare, promoted to heir? Do they really still call him, ‘the boy?’ The Rogers swore Harrold was eighteen, her age, but what if he is younger, fourteen or fifteen? Do they expect her to go to bed with a little child? 

“I am Ser Randyll Hasty, captain of the guard at Amberly,” the man is saying. Father shakes his hand, though Hasty is no great house, and he inclines his head politely to Branda. “My lady. We are most honored to receive you.”

“We’ll be most honored to sit down and share a cup of mead or wine,” Father says dryly. “It’s been a long, wet ride through these woods.”

Ser Randyll looks as though he is constraining a slight smile. “Of course, my lord. One forgets how… different these lands must be, to northerners.”

“Not so very different,” Branda says. “We have deep woods, too, Ser. And wild seas. Though ours are full of Ironborn, and yours of pirate kings.”

“Is there a difference?” Hasty is bold, for a captain, but she finds she likes it well enough. At the very least, he makes easy conversation with herself and Father, until they begin to hear the distant cry of a gull or two, and the mist begins to thin, as do the trees and shrubbery. Soon enough, they leave the forest behind, and the glimmer of the ocean in the afternoon sunlight is visible on the horizon. 

The town of Amberly overlooks the sea, and the castle must overlook the town, sheltering it from the wooded hills. The road moves uphill, but try as Branda might, she cannot make out any towers or parapets from here. 

“How many floors is Amberly?” she inquires of Ser Randyll, hoping it is not just a wooden-timber hall, like Mormont Keep. 

“It depends what section of the castle you are in,” he says, “but as for why you cannot see it, my lady, it was built that way, into the hillside. And the path to it cuts right through a proper maze, you shall see.”

She does see, for soon the ocean disappears again, though she can still smell it, and there are trees on either side of them, but this is different from the Rainwood. Just as dense, yes, but in a more… sculpted sort of way. Manmade, she thinks, her eyes picking up what seem like queer patterns among the trees and shrubbery. These hills were planted and molded to have this greenery, these are not the trees and bushes the gods put here to start with. 

Before long, the path before them seems to vanish entirely, and their horses are reduced to near single-file.

“This cannot be the only road to Amberly,” Father scoffs.

Hasty only chuckles. “There are many roads to Amberly, my lord. This is but one of them, and the most suited to such a small party. But none of them, I promise you, are easily found.”

“The Rogers do not care for visitors?” Lyarra asks archly from behind them,

“House Rogers,” Hasty says, “well… when the first, Ser Benedict, claimed these lands, he declared he would never make it easy for his foes to find him.”

“And he did not think that craven of him?” Rickard, trying to be snide, and ill-tempered because his horse threw a shoe a little while ago, and he had to change mounts with a Rogers guard. 

“No,” says Hasty. “Years later, when a rival knight tried to kill him in cold blood and claim his wife and keep, Ser Benedict was able to lose him in this very maze of trees and hurry home to defend his castle, for he’d planted every one himself, and knew the way they’d grown around each other. They say the Maze Knight never found his way out, and is still wandering this hillside, calling for Rogers’ blood.”

They might as well be moving through a tunnel of forestry; even in the dead of winter, with tree limbs bare and snow on the ground, it would be disorienting to ride through. It’s difficult to get your bearings; there’s no easy line of sight because the path bends and twists so much, and the trees seem to muffle all sound. 

Soon Branda gives up on trying to keep track of the route they are taking, and thinks instead of the Knight wandering the hills, screaming for the heads of the Rogers, flailing blindly through the brush, chopping aside branches and vines with a rusty old axe, his skull rattling in his helm, flesh long ago rotted away to reveal the bone underneath. 

She wonders if the Rogers tell their children that story as they sit before the fire at night, the way the Starks whisper tales of Others, ice spiders, grumkins and snarks and Children of the Forest, and of course, since Raymund Redbeard was not so long ago, tales of cruel wildling kings come down from the Wall to rape and reave. Branda likes stories, though she never quite got over the bad habit of interrupting during them. Lyarra was good, though; she would sit in rapt silence, hands folded neatly in her lap. 

Suddenly they reach the summit; the trees and wood fall away, as if collapsing, and Amberly rises before them. 

Gods, it’s small, Branda thinks, first, and then, it reminds me of Torrhen’s Square. Like the Tallharts’ humble keep, Amberly is more stout fortress than elegant castle, built up of black and white stones in a jarring pattern that confuses the eye and makes it hard to even describe its structure. 

The southerly entrance and gatehouse, as far as she can tell, are part of a square tower which looks towards the coast and the sea. An aqueduct borders the castle, or this side of it, anyways, and water seems to perpetually flow down into the moat when there’s been rain recently. And Branda doesn’t know much of the Stormlands, but she knows it rains here through all autumn and winter. 

She can’t make out any other striking towers, as she cranes her neck as they approach the gates, aside from what seems like the rookery, jutting out of a back corner of the keep; that turret is entirely black stones. And then the gates are grinding up, they are passing over the slate bridge across the moat, and she loses any hope of trying to hold Amberly’s image in her mind. 

Winterfell has at least a dozen separate courtyards; Amberly has one, and Branda realizes now that the godswood is carved into the middle of it; the castle was built up around it, and what must be the guest house or guard’s hall looms over the godswood, and the rest of the halls and rooms are all built so they either look out across the hillside and the sea, or to reflect back into this courtyard. 

The stones on the ground are more alternating black and white; Jorah is stepping gamely from one to the other, like trying to chart his movements, as soon as he’s scrambled down from his filly. 

Ser Randyll helps her down from her horse, and then she is surrounded by the clump of her family. 

“I’ll see your men to their lodgings,” he says, as Mother takes Branda’s one arm, and Lyarra the other, their expressions already set in what Branda calls the Lady Stark look; not quite haughty coldness, but certainly… chilled. Like preserves. Still soft, but not what anyone could call warm or… loose of emotion. She smiles awkwardly; what else can she do?

A few guardsmen stay back with them, and then there is a flurry of movement; a woman’s muffled cry, feet on steps, and the Starks are forced to turn to reckon with the party descending on them from the stairwell leading down into the yard from one of the apartments above. Well, they descend, and then stop, because the man who should by all rights be leading the charge to behold his blushing bride, is on crutches. 

Well, one crutch, and his right ankle is thick with a plaster to keep is straight. He hobbles over to them, with a look that is half smile and half grimace, and Branda hears Father forcibly exhale in disappointment. 

Harrold Rogers; for this must be him, there were no other brothers, Ser Osric’s father passed before the war- is not tall. He’s not short, either, but he’s perhaps an inch or two shorter than Rodrik Stark, who isn’t a very tall man, to his eternal dismay. Nor he is he narrow of waist and broad of shoulder and handsome of face. 

The young man before Branda is, well, common looking. He could be a stablehand or a butcher’s boy or a squire or an oarsman. He is dressed finely, in a black doublet slashed with silver, a silver unicorn clasping his cloak, but he is stocky and square in build, with short arms and legs and a plain, bland face. 

His nose is broad and his ears are small, at least. His brows are thick and bristly and as dark a brown as his hair, though his eyes are a warm, pleasant shade of brown, Branda thinks; mayhaps leaning more towards hazel, flecked with other colors? 

He inclines his head shyly, and say, in a slightly creaky, uncertain voice, “I welcome you to my hearth and home, Ser Rodrik, my ladies- lady Branda,” he sounds hasty to not forget her, and attempts a stooped half bow, so that he does not topple over, his crutch squeaking on the stones. 

Jorah mutters something under his breath to Rickard, who glares down at him and mouths a threat. Jorah stops whispering. Branda is sure she is bright red, unlike her proud mother and serene sister. 

“My lord,” she curtsies, hoping there is not a different style to it in the Stormlands, and spots some mud on her hem. Gods be true. Just push both of them into the bloody moat, at this rate. 

A woman clears her throat, noisily. Is it Aunt Jonelle? 

No, it is an older blonde woman who must be Harrold’s mother. He straightens, tries to turn too quickly, and almost staggers. Father reaches out a hand to steady him, then stops when it is clear he’s regained his balance. 

“May I present my mother, Lady Cynthea, of House Bar Emmon?” Harrold says. The sight of Branda’s flushed face seems to encourage him to respond in kind; he is steadily ruddying, though his skin is far more tanned than hers, with a crop of dark freckles across his nose. 

“You are most welcome,” Lady Cynthea says; she’s a good deal more at ease with company than her injured son, and steps forward quickly to take Branda’s hand in her own. Her skin is cool but the pads of her long fingers are calloused. 

She has more delicate looks than Harrold; cornsilk blonde hair gathered back in a net studded with pearls, and big blue eyes, almost goggly in her face. Even her eyelashes are blonde, Branda realizes. Maybe she has some Valyrian blood in her. 

“I know you’ve had a long, hard journey, but you honor us with your presence, my lady,” she tells Branda, very formally, as if addressing a princess. “I am sure you and your kin would like to rest and bathe before we trouble you any further today.”

Branda, waits, expecting her mother to speak, then realizes everyone is looking at her to take the lead. “That would be very good of you, Lady Cynthea,” she says, and is sheepish to find she sounds near as awkward as Harrold. 

There’s a girl with Harrold’s mother; she must be his sister, the resemblance is undeniable, though she is younger, fifteen or sixteen at the oldest. She has a more narrow, pointed face, like her mother, but her hair and eyes are dark, and her eyebrows thick, like her brother. She is quite short, too, though she must be flowered; they dress her like a young lady, not a little girl, in dark violet trimmed with silver and blue lace. 

“My daughter, Fiona,” Harrold’s mother says, a ringed hand on the girl’s skinny shoulder. “Stairs are difficult for my son since his injury, though Maester Blaise tells us by in another week the plaster can be removed. Isn’t that right, my lord?”

Harrold clears his throat uncomfortably. “Ah, yes.”

“Will the ceremony be delayed?” Mother inquires sharply, but not angrily. 

Both Harrold and his mother look to her and Father instead, open-eyed. 

“If you feel that would be for the best-,”

“Of course not,” Father says gruffly, as if chastened by the insinuation. “I was still on milk-of-poppy from a war wound when I wed Arya. He’s young; he’ll be back on both feet in no time, isn’t that right, lad?” He claps Harrold on the shoulder; Harrold smiles uneasily, and gives a little unreadable look to Branda. 

Well, if he means her to read it, she can’t, he’s written it in a foreign tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes:
> 
> 1\. Welcome to my next long-running ASOIAF fic! This fic will feature around the Rogers family, who are minor nobility in the Stormlands. House Rogers is not my creation, nor are Branda Stark and Harrold Rogers. You can find them on the wiki. Their personalities, however, are. Branda is the elder sister of Lyarra Stark, who is the mother of Ned and company, and cousin to Rickard Stark. We don't know why or in what circumstances she was wed into the Stormlands in canon, so I made some stuff up. There's going to be a lot of that in this fic. If you are not keen on any original characters, this is not the fic for you, as almost all of the POVs will be original characters, though they will be constantly interacting with canon characters. 
> 
> 2\. Young Jorah is annoying as hell but I could not resist. He is not actually related to the Starks, but his mother, Jonelle, in this fic is the sister of Arya Flint, the mother of Lyarra and Branda. Branda and Lyarra are Irish twins (under a year apart). Their father Rodrik was absent for much of their childhood because he was constantly leaving Winterfell to travel across Westeros or across the Narrow Sea to work as a mercenary. This has not been great for his marriage, obviously, nor his relationship with his nephew, Edwyle, the Lord Stark at the start of this fic (more like his cousin, they're close in age). 
> 
> 3\. I want to be very clear in this fic about showing the cultural and geographical differences between the various kingdoms, because it annoys me when they all get combined into one big lump, especially in southern Westeros. The Stormlands has its own distinct culture and views, and they don't like being conflated with say the Crownlands or the Reach. They dress in a different style, they dance in a different style, they eat different foods, etc. There's going to be a lot of back and forth comparing the North to the Stormlands in this fic. 
> 
> 4\. Winterfell is huge, like ridiculously huge. So Amberly, while not some little hovel, is very, very small and modest in comparison. The Rogers have money and know how to spend it, but they are not considered anywhere on the level of power and prestige as the Great Houses. I based Amberly itself in terms of construction vaguely off the monastery fortress of Stavronikita in Greece. I wanted it to be unique in description and to stand out to the reader. My aesthetic for this fic is very funky 80s fantasy in terms of bright colors and odd design choices. There's freaky local legends and the castle is hidden at the center of a 'natural' maze. Their sigil are unicorns around a maze. It's supposed to be weird. 
> 
> 5\. This is not a fic where there is a lot of drama and conflict between the 'main' couple of Branda and Hal. There's no big scandals or twists for them. They love each other and that's basically the gist of it. There will, however, be plenty of drama with their kids to make up for that. This fic will use frequent time skips so be prepared for that, I will always indicate the year and location at the top of the chapter. This fic will cover roughly 20-odd years in time. Yes, Robert's Rebellion will happen. This is not a major canon overhaul, but there will be some differences in the fates of certain characters, etc. We will spend a lot of time at Amberly, Storm's End, Winterfell, and the Red Keep. 
> 
> 6\. I will update every Friday. Every chapter will be between 5000-8000 words. Constructive criticism is always welcome, but please be civil to me and one another in my comment section. I'm not interested in getting constant email notifications while you engage in a strenuous comment thread debate. The tags will update as the story goes, so as not to string anyone along.


	2. Branda II

261 AC - AMBERLY

Unlike Winterfell, Amberly has no separate guest house enclosed within the keep. Instead Branda and her kin are given what they are assured are the most favorable chambers in the castle, ones facing the ocean, as opposed to the hills and mountains behind them. 

Still, Amberly is not very high a castle, and while on the top floor of Winterfell Branda could gaze out to a grey-green horizon clouded by mist and highlands and pines, here her eyes must squint to skim past the hedges and brush and trees to make out the glimpse of the coast and the sea beyond them. 

She knows these rooms are only temporary; of course after the wedding next week she will be moved in with her husband, so it should not matter if she likes them or not, but she does. The queer black and white tiling is continued, even here, and the walls are adorned with frescos and illuminations and tapestries. She knows the Rogers are not poor, and it is obvious they’ve spent a good deal of coin over the years keeping their home in fine condition. 

“What do you make of this?” Aunt Jonelle is scrutinizing one of the illuminated paintings. The illuminations are always on the walls across from windows, so that the sunlight can bring out the golden hues of paint. 

This one displays a naked woman striding forth from the sea. The waves lap coyly at her powerful thighs and just barely conceal her sex, and her hair is seaweed and kelp and strewn with shells and barnacles, cascading down her back like a miniature wave of its own. She carries a crown in one hand, as if she means to fling it aside, though it is a beautiful circlet of rainbow coral. In the other hand, she carries a driftwood scepter with a hunk of amber mounted atop it, radiating light. 

Her face is set in determination, more furious than serene, but her blue-green eyes are smiling and full of love. A distant, crude figure of a man on the shore reaches for her, on his knees as if awaiting salvation. The disparity between them is comical; due to the distance and proportions, she seems almost a giantess, he a dwarf. Dolphins frolic behind her, diving out of the sea, and seals nose at her feet. A crab skitters about merrily before her. 

“It must be Elenei,” Lyarra pronounces immediately; she was always the clever one, though Branda is grateful she never rubbed it in. 

Branda can read and write and knows her sums, of course, but she never did have much interest or patience in history. She preferred fantastical stories, and writing silly poems, and playing music. Lyarra always enjoyed such dry things, though, and had their family tree dating back to Torrhen memorized by the time she was twelve. Branda could barely keep their own father’s dead older siblings straight.

Aunt Jonelle and Aunt Marna seem confused, but Mother says, gruffly, “Their sea goddess, who wed Durran Godsgrief. They worshipped them, before the Andals.”

“So these are their old gods,” Branda says, tracing a finger over Elenei’s swirling curls. “How funny, that they paint them!”

“These are not the old gods,” Mother scoffs. “These are just stories. Legends. As we have wargs and greenseers. Might be your husband will permit you to worship in their godswood from time to time, but your children will be blessed and anointed in a sept.” Her mouth forms a tight, compressed little scowl, but she says no more on it. 

Branda tries to look properly chastened and sobered, but she would be lying if she said it struck a great blow to her heart, this marriage of two vastly different faiths. It is not that she does not believe in the gods. Of course she does. She has always made time for them in her heart and mind, and she has taken her troubles before Winterfell’s great heart tree, many times, and felt better for it. 

But it is not… she should not say she is devout. It is a failing of hers, she knows, and she holds no sudden desire to convert to the Seven- she would never do such a thing, even if this Harrold demanded it. All the same, she is not as horrified or infuriated as she should be, to be wedding into a southron house with a southron sept. 

Perhaps she will come to resent it in time, perhaps she will feel more strongly when she has her own children, but she thinks surely in a few years she may have prevailed upon Lord Harrold enough to convince him to occasionally let her bring their children into the godswood for prayer, not just play. And if he refuses, she will simply teach them to pray in secret. 

But Mother would not like to hear her talk of this. She is a godly woman and it troubles her enough that Father is- well, the gods he prays to are not the old nor the new. Arya Flint has been heard to say that her wild Roddy worships only two: warring and whoring.

Father will pay his respects in a godswood, but he spends more time there cleaning his blade or soaking in the hot springs than he does at prayer or meditation. 

Still, Mother has Lyarra, and for Lyarra the old gods are as real and present as old friends, and she honors them with love and reverence. 

Mother goes into the next room with their aunts to see that their things are being properly unpacked and put away by strange Rogers servants, which leaves Branda and Lyarra momentarily alone. 

“We have near as much Andal blood as we do First Men blood in us, anyways,” Lyarra says. “Don’t take it to heart. She just… she worries, you know, and she will miss you so much. We all will, Branny.”

Lyarra has not called her that in years. Despite being younger, she is almost a head taller than Branda, and where Branda is shorter and stouter, with thick thighs and short limbs, the rough and tumble Flint build, Lyarra is taller and slimmer, with a slender grace to her build, and high cheekbones, a long nose to match her long face. Her hair is thinner than Branda’s, but a lighter shade of brown, and it compliments the grey eyes they both share well. 

“Branny?” Branda scoffs, and squeezes Lyarra’s long-fingered hand. “Don’t get plucky just because you’re sore I’m wedding first. You know I shall hate to miss you and Rickard’s festivities. Uncle Edwyle will spare no expense. He’ll invite all the clansmen and you’ll be tossed about like a rag doll on the dance floor while they wail on their drums and hurdy gurdys. Then Father will get drunk and remember he used to play the fiddle. You’ll be in for it then. Rick’s little grumkin ears will be bleeding.”

“Oh dear,” Lyarra snorts, laying her head on Branda’s shoulder for a moment. “You’ve such a way with words. I almost took you for a poet.”

Branda pets her hair, wondering if this is the last time. The Starks will stay on for a while, but it’s autumn, and they don’t want to be making their way home in the dead of winter. Six months or less, she wagers, and then… well, when will she see her sister again? Her mother and father? The Rainwood is a long way from home, and wolves don’t belong at sea, usually. 

“We’ll write,” Lyarra says, as if she’d read her mind. “I’ll write you every week. The ravens will hate us.”

“Birds already hate me,” Branda distinctly remembers one of Maester Walys’ taking a shit on her shoe, as a little girl. 

Mother returns, looking mollified. “Now,” she says. “Their steward’s promised me you should have your pick of the maids.”

A few grave looking girls are trooped in for inspection. The servants of House Rogers wear black trimmed with silvery grey, and they remind Branda of black brothers from the Wall, only these are all women, of course. She was taught older was better, for a lady’s maid, so she at random picks one of the women closer to thirty than twenty, who identifies herself as Annys, or Nan. That’s comforting. 

There must be a dozen Nans working at Winterfell. Branda likes Old Nan the best of all of them, though her stories were often of a darker bend than Father’s. She liked to tell tales of the dead and dying and worst of the Starks, stories that might have gotten her in trouble were Uncle Edwyle to hear them. The Night’s King on his throne of skulls with the Corpse Queen at his side, one eye Stark grey, the other bright blue with evil. 

“I’m always fair in my dealings and you shall never have a soft purse when you’re with me,” Branda tells her gamely. “If we travel I’ll increase your wages for the trouble, and if you’ve a man and children I’ll keep a good word for them in my mouth. I’m no Faithful so I don’t know about your holy days, but if it’s one of observance you need only tell me, and you may have it.” 

“It’s all to my liking, my lady,” Nan says, with a curtsy. “I’ll see your rooms and gowns done just as you like them.”

Branda inclines her head, smiling graciously, and sends her away. 

“You’ll want her in Stark colors, at least some of the time,” Aunt Jonelle says, though she’s a Flint by birth, and is clad in her husband’s Mormont greens and browns. “Remember, they’re marrying up, aren’t they? You’re a daughter of a Great House, and they’ll respect that. The blood of kings, that’s yours. No Rogers was ever a king.”

Mother is less aggressive, but says, “He looks younger than I thought, this Harrold, but he seemed sturdy enough. That’s good. Sometimes the second sons, they’re less hardy than the first.”

“What does that make Rodrik, then?” Marna Locke asks, surprising them all with her fire, and Mother laughs loud and hard, a Flint laugh. 

“Seventh born and seven times cursed, that’s what,” Mother says. “Though I hear they call it lucky, in the south, to be the seventh. They’d have packed him off to a sept, then. More’s the pity.”

“Aye, we’d pity the septas, then,” Jonelle snorts, and even Lyarra and Branda chance a small smile. 

They’re left alone for the rest of the afternoon, and while her aunts prowl this tiny castle, looking for defects or horrors, Branda lies on her tummy on this strange-smelling bed, and watches the warm autumn breeze ruffle at the silver gossamer curtains on the windows. It makes them look hazy, foggy, as if perceived from a great distance away. 

Perhaps she could write a poem about this place. Amberly sounds awfully mystical, full of enchantment and wonder. The Rogers made their wealth off amber, in fact. Still, they should not be sorry for her dowry. Uncle Edwyle was generous in that, at least. 

She ought to feel more resentful and angry. This match is unequivocally beneath her. No, it is not as if she is marrying a Frey, or a mere landed knight, but Grandmother Melantha was horrified, she wanted Branda to wed back into her own house. 

The last queen was a Blackwood, Melantha’s own cousin. Black Betha. But she is dead, as are all her sons save the one on the throne now, though they say his health is failing rapidly, as of late. So is the current Lord Stark’s. Mother is as blunt as any clanswomen, and estimates Uncle Edwyle will not live more than another year or two. Rickard and Lyarra will not be married long when he inherits his father’s seat. 

Branda considers Rickard, thinks he will be a decent enough lord. She wouldn’t call him kind, ever, but he is fair, and generally respectful in his dealings. And he’ll never mistreat her sister, so that has to count for something. Rickard isn’t indecisive; he commits to things, and he would never harm or shame Lyarra. That is good. For all of Lyarra’s virtues she is prideful, and could not tolerate a weak or craven man in the marriage bed. 

Were Branda wedding Rickard, it would be a disaster. She would irritate him, and he would aggravate her, and they’d be at each other’s throats for decades to come. Unlike Lyarra and their mother, she has no patience for grudges; Branda’s anger is her father’s, a flash and it’s gone, but that flash of teeth will tear your throat out if you're not careful.

She’s going to miss her father very much; his stories, his warm laughter, his hugs. She knows he hasn’t been a good husband, and he was never there enough when she was small to be a good father, but in recent years he has not wandered so far, and she has grown very fond of him. She loves her mother too, but sometimes she feels that Mother is frustrated with her easiness, that she thinks Branda should have more bite to her, more spine. 

I have a spine, Branda thinks, rolling over onto her back. See, here it is. The thought makes her giggle, though it’s mostly nerves and tiredness, and she’s still a little giggly while dressing for dinner a few hours later. 

Nan the new maid waits patiently as the women strenuously argue over which gown Branda should wear tonight. She has an all new wardrobe straight up from the finest seamstresses in White Harbor, but only a few of her gowns are in the more airy southron style, and she knows really not much at all about how they array themselves in the Stormlands. 

They say Stormlanders are a tempestuous people, easily taking slight or offense, but that they can go to war one day, then feast together the next, singing and drinking to their health. 

“The grey,” Mother is insistent. 

“Truly speaking, grey is not her color,” Aunt Jonelle says, “it washes her out- ouch, don’t pinch me, Arya, it does!”

“The white,” Aunt Marna suggests. “Very rich, and she looks a doll in white-,”

Lyarra settles it. “Green,” she says, balancing her sharp chin on one fist as she sits cross-legged on the bed, her skirts all bunched up around her, as opposed to her usual formal countenance. “Branda looks very well in green, and the woods around here are all a-green, and they should like that very much, that she dresses the part of a Rainwood lady.”

“I want the green,” Branda yawns; her stomach rumbles at the same time. It’s a quite dark, foresty green, Lyarra is right, and it does look very well on her; she examines herself in the mirror, rolling back her shoulders and sticking out her chest, which she has a lot of; her mother is apt to jape that her children will never want for a wetnurse. 

The skin above her chest looks very clean and pale after her bath; like most of the Starks Branda never tans nor burns much, only stays the same shade, aside from the odd freckle here and there. Her face is nice, too, she thinks, nice and round and she has one dimple when she grins, showing her straight teeth. 

She will never have Lyarra’s graceful cheekbones and elegant nose, but she likes her own snubbed nose well enough, and she likes how her eyes look this evening in the glow of the torches and lanterns; an arresting grey framed by long lashes. Her eyes are bigger than her sister’s; doe-like, her father once said. 

Gods, but how tiny their feasting hall is! 

Winterfell’s cavernous great hall has impressive vaulted ceilings and can seat five hundred people; lords and ladies and every member of the household in all its rows of trestle tables. The aisle down the middle is wide enough for an entire column of horse to pass through, Branda has always thought. There’s a dozen great hearths besides that, all around the hall, and the windows are long and high and spotless, letting in crisp, cool northern sunlight. 

Amberly’s feasting hall could never be called great. It is richly decorated with silver sconces and gilded tapestries and the floors and tables are spotless, but it is so… small. Branda doesn’t have much a head for numbers but even she can tell that it can only seat barely a hundred guests, on top of the existing household. The head table seems diminutive and simple compared to Winterfell’s, like a child’s imitation, even though unicorns dance around the massive tapestry hanging on the wall behind it. The windows are far fewer; the hall seems stuffy and dim, though perhaps it’s just the lighting. 

Ser Harrold is wearing a different cloak now; it’s a dark velvet green that almost matches her gown, and she wonders if Nan tipped one of his manservants off. It’s hard for him to come on and off the dais with that crutch; so she quickens her pace and darts ahead a little so he just has to give her his arm as she steps up. 

She can’t tell if he’s grateful or embarrassed about the reprieve. He seats her in between himself and his mother; her father and mother are across from her. His own sister is in between Rickard and Lyarra, while her aunts and Jorah are seated beside what must be their steward and his wife. 

Lady Cynthea introduces them as Master Harlan Sewell, and his wife, Mistress Ellyn Sewell. 

By Mistress Sewell’s chatter, apparently ‘Ellyn’ is a very common name in the Stormlands, as common as Jonelle or Branda in the North. Branda has never minded much sharing her name. She does not think she could make a good Lyarra or Arya Stark; she is not severe enough for it.

The Hasty brothers are also at the table; Ser Randyll, who she’s met already, is their captain of guard, but his brother Ser Martyn is their master-at-arms. The two look nearly identical, so Branda can already tell this is going to be quite confusing. 

There is also Septa Dybele, a pinched, thin woman with curious green eyes who is Lady Fiona’s governess, Maester Blaise, who is bald as an egg but has a charming smile, and Septon Mandor, who is very, very tall and broad. Branda had gotten it into her head that septons were all scurrying white mice. 

The rest of the household is seated below them; Branda easily picks out Nan on the benches, but the others are all strangers. She tries not to look intimidated or nervous when Ser Randyll proposes a toast, and Harrold almost begrudgingly stands up, taking her by the elbow with him. 

He has a firm, but not harsh grip, and she sees that his hands could easily dwarf her own; he’s not a tall man, but he has big hands and feet. The household applauds and cheers politely, and then she is sat back down. 

“Sorry,” Harrold murmurs to her, as if she’d been subjected to some humiliation or indignity. Perhaps she looks displeased. She smiles at him, or tries to, but then her father is off on some war story, and her attention is swept away, except when the courses are brought out. 

There are only six, which seems appropriate, given that a serving wench in King’s Landing told Branda that northmen were notoriously stingy about their food, and often seemed to have larger appetites for exotic southron drinks than they did for the meal itself. Branda is known for not being able to hold her drink, though, and she doesn’t want to make a fool of herself tonight, so she only accepts water. The water here all has fruit in it for flavoring. Lemons or oranges or strawberries, how strange. 

The first course is a salad. Branda knows what a salad is, as much as people often joke that the northerners can only boil and stew their vegetables. She has just never had a salad with cheese and olives in it before, so that is curious. 

She finds she quite likes the olives, though, and has to prevent herself from eating them, first, one by one, because Harrold’s sister is staring at her in bemusement, as if watching a strange animal feed. There is also a raisin bread, which she has had before, so there. 

Then come the roasted Dornish peppers stuffed with herbs, and lamb sausage seasoned with lemon zest. Rickard looks completely perplexed, Lyarra is picking at it dolefully, Mother is eating like every bite is her duty, but Father seems to enjoy it well enough. 

Then again, he’s had just about every type of food from all over the world, he’s been to Essos and back so many times, selling his sword. Uncle Edwyle says it is a great dishonor, for a Stark to take to mercenary, and that he’d rather Father have just taken the black like Uncle Errold did. Father says he’ll take the black when Edwyle does, so they can have a contest off the Wall, and see who pisses further. 

After that, there’s some kind of fish; when she asks Harrold, he tells her in a low voice that it is mackerel. It tastes smoky, which she likes. It comes with a bean soup; she slurps down carrots, onion, celery, and other herbs she doesn’t know. Seeing how enthusiastically Branda is attacking it, his sister Fiona japes how she might like their nettle soup, too. 

“The Riverlands has nettle soup, too, they drink it every spring, to make them strong,” Branda says, drawing herself up a little to show she is not just some cossetted plump little Starkling. “My grandmother is a Blackwood, she knows how it’s made. It’s got cream and leeks and onions- and nettles, of course. She says it washes out the bad blood better than any leeching could.”

Fiona blanches at that; Harrold smiles; it is the first genuine smile she’s seen on him, she thinks. He has a very boyish smile. “Fiona hates leeches. And worms. Anything that wriggles. Except her favorite shrimps,” he teases, and his sister shakes a hand at him. 

“Ay! Leave me be.”

The fourth course is a meat pie, which at least is well known all over Westeros, though this one seems to be mostly goat, which she’s not used to. Mother is, though she complains under her breath to Aunt Jonelle that the white wine sauce it’s soaked in was unnecessary. Branda likes the pastry; it crumbles sweetly in her mouth. Rickard seems to, too, though he’s trying to look neutral and aloof. 

After the pie, there’s mussels, which Branda has never had before; Lady Cynthea shows her how to neatly break them open with her fork without splattering sauce everywhere. She likes those a lot, too, though she keeps losing them in the mess of peas and chopped up carrots they were served in. 

Finally, out come the desserts, which is good, because Father has finally talked himself out, and Mother is more chatty now that she’s had two cups of wine, speaking of the rough travel south and how strangely warm and casual the autumn is here, despite the harvests to be brought in and castles to be cleaned out for winter. 

There’s a buttery almond cake, a sweetbread made up of cinnamon and cloves, which are rare at Winterfell, and walnut-and-honey cookies. Branda does not want to look like a glutton and so forces herself to only eat a slice of the cake, but Harrold notices her longing glances at the sweetbread, and serves her some off his own plate. It would be very rude for her to refuse food from her host and betrothed’s own plate, so honor demands she eat it, of course. She’s not very sorry. 

“After dinner,” Harrold says, “I had hopes that the lady might join me for a walk to the godswood. If that would suit.” He is talking to her but clearly addressing her mother and father. 

“Of course,” Father says, after swallowing his mouthful of cake. “Stretch your legs. We’ll see if your weirwood is in order.”

Branda shoots a desperate look at Mother; they don’t need so many chaperones, do they? They’re to be wed by this time next week. 

“I hear you’ve a glass house in there as well,” she says to Lady Cynthea. “Do oblige me, if you will. Let our men stay up and drink one more toast or two.”

Father is not going to turn down a toast; he consents, and Branda alights from the table, her hand in her betrothed’s, shooting an excited look at Lyarra, who gives her an encouraging nod.

This is all very new to Branda; while Lyarra and Rickard have been going on these sort of walks (supervised or not) for years, her only contact with Ser Osric was a few letters, of which recently had stopped… because he was dead. 

She wonders where he is buried, and feels guilt for not feeling more guilt. She never even met the man, but she was promised to him. Does it make Harrold uncomfortable, to be taking his brother’s bride? 

It is not so uncommon. Men die suddenly all the time, and often as not their brothers do marry their intendeds, to uphold the contract. Occasionally the Faith objects to it, but that is more likely in the case of widows, not of mere engagements. And Harrold seems kind enough, or at least well-humored. He fed her from his own plate and he is taking her to visit her gods. 

“You could get around the entire castle without ever having to cross our yard,” he says, once they are outside, the wind tugging at their cloaks, her arm in his. “But I prefer it.”

In the square of sky presented to them by the blocky walls of the keep, Branda sees the moon and more stars than she knows what to do with. 

“Is it because of the sea?” she asks him. “I can see more here than I could at home.”

He thinks for a moment, then admits, “I don’t know. We should ask Maester.”

We should ask Maester. She likes the sound of that. She would not have liked it if he’d made up some answer simply to sound clever. He stops for a moment, as if to let her look. Their mothers are far behind them. In the night, his dark hair looks jet black. 

“How did you hurt your ankle?” she asks, though maybe she shouldn’t. Rickard broke his elbow as a boy and hated to have to tell of how it happened, during a frantic snowball fight between himself and her and Lyarra and Rodrik Cassel. 

He grimaces. “I was out on a hunt, and I didn’t watch my feet. Scrambled down from my horse and slipped down a ravine.”

“Do you like to hunt, then?”

“Yes. And you, my lady?”

“I prefer hawking,” she admits. “But I like to ride. My mother says my sister and I ride like centaurs.”

“You have centaurs, in the North? I know you have unicorns. On Skagos.”

He pronounces it wrong, the southron way, though Branda should not judge. She only knows a few words in the Old Tongue from her mother. Most northerners love to brag of their First Men blood, but will still deride the Skagosi as savages and mongrels, trapped thousands of years in the past on their rocky, barren island. 

“Those are just stories,” she says, smiling up at him. Father has been to Skagos before, but he says what they call unicorns are more like great burly horned goats with shaggy coats and vicious teeth and cloven hooves black as the pits of some seventh hell. 

Mother hates him to speaks of hells; hell is no good in the North. There is no paradise and no inferno waiting after death. There is just this world. And all the creatures and growing things who make it up, living and dying and sprouting up anew atop one another, always in motion. 

“Oh.”

But they keep walking together, and she notes how he rarely lets his crutch touch the white stones, only the black. 

Were she married at Winterfell, as Lyarra will be before the year is out, every house in the North would be in attendance, for it would coincide with the harvest festivals. Prickly Jeor and his gruff sister Maege would be there, with a fresh bearskin rug for the happy couple. The mountain Flints of her mother’s kin would come pouring down from the hills; her mother’s brother Torghen and all his folk; his sons, Black Donnel and Artos, and his daughters, all from two different wives. They’d bang their drums all the way up to Winterfell’s gates with the usual insolent Flint look; craggy smiles and wind-chapped skin, and short, thickset bodies. 

The others Flints would come as well, though Branda is less familiar with them; the gawky Flints of Flint’s Cliff, and the blue-eyed, suspicious Flints of Widow’s Watch, a house almost always ruled by women, for all their men are cursed to die early deaths. Medger Cerwyn would ride up with a bouquet of flowers his household picked along the roadside on their short journey to Winterfell, smiling his best charming grin. The Tallharts would come, with great big frozen barrels of fresh fish for the wedding feast, trundling in their wagons. 

And the Ryswells would rally up the best stallions of their herds to make their offerings to the Starks, driving them across the Rills with fierce cries and bellowing horns. With them the Dustins, all in yellow and black, the wealth of Barrowton behind them, and a snide look at the portly Manderlys, decked out in knightly honor, tridents pointed towards the windy autumn sky, as they galloped up from White Harbor, a procession of curious cityfolk and free-riders stretching out behind them. 

That would just be a fraction of the guests pouring into Winterfell, but it would be no trouble, in a castle constructed to hold thousands. 

That is not the case at Amberly; here the garrison is just a hundred men, if that, and there are only so many rooms allotted for guests; everyone else will have to bed down in the town of Amberly overlooking the sea. 

The guests come, to be sure; the Bar Emmons of Sharp Point first and foremost, the kin of Lady Cynthea. Most of them have her look; sharp, pointed face, light eyes and hair, and sallow skin. Jorah claims Fiona Rogers told him the Bar Emmons used to be born with gill slits in their necks and webbed fingers, or was that only when they wed into Velaryons? The Bar Emmons are of Andal origins, but are so closely located to Driftmark that there’s Bar Emmon in every Velaryon, and Velaryon in every Bar Emmon, or so they claim. 

Father clouts Jorah for spreading gossip, though he laughs first. 

Then there are the rowdy Wyldes of the Rain House; they come in all shades of hair and skin, unlike the Bar Emmons, but most have eyes of a piercing blue-green. Harold’s father, Benedict, had a sister, Lorra, who wed Lord Merlon Wylde, and they arrive with their three young children; Corwin, Alesander, and Roger, to match one-for-one, the Bar Emmons’ Cassandra, Orren, and Elinor. 

The Conningtons of Griffin’s Roost arrive as well, all in red and white; they are the closest noble house to the Rogers, just a ways up the rocky coast and around the Griffin’s Bay, though they hold themselves very proudly, and might well, for they have nearly thrice the lands that the Rogers do, and were lords in their own right well before Aegon ever landed on these shores. 

They are not a very robust house, though, it is just Lord Armond, a short but powerfully built man with flaming red hair and icy blue eyes, and his wife, a Grandison by birth, whose hair is red gold and with eyes of a much warmer brown. They brought their hardy little son with them; he is called Jon, and a chunky one year old, instantly adored by all the serving girls and ladies present, for he really is quite sweet looking, though he has a screech like an eagle, which suits his house. Fiona is betrothed to Lord Armond's cousin, Ser Raymond, whose hair is more auburn than red, and who has so many freckles his face is almost a different shade from the rest of him. 

Those are just the families afforded rooms within the castle due to their blood and honors. More minor nobles arrive as well, drawn by the lure of a mysterious Stark bride wedding into the Rogers, of all people. But they must content themselves with the town inn or rent out cottages overlooking the sea, and so Branda sees less of them until the wedding day itself. 

Still, she thinks she might be a different picture altogether than they were expecting; try as she might, she can never make herself look severe and regal in the mirror; her natural inclination is to smile, lest she grimace and look ill instead. 

When the Bar Emmons arrived, Lord Gulian, Lady Cynthea’s brother, had greeted Lyarra as the future bride until his sister quickly corrected him. Lyarra was annoyed, but Branda did not mind so much; it was a little funny, to see how red he suddenly grew. 

She does feel almost regal on her wedding day, though. 

By northern standards, her gown is almost scandalous, not because it is explicitly southron in design (it is not), but because an autumn day wedding in the Stormlands is very different, weather-wise, from one in the North, and so were it not for the heavy woolen skirts, this gown would likely be the lightest, airiest dress any Stark bride ever wore, even those wed in the dead of a summer. A Northern summer, of course, often brings snow. Branda’s autumn wedding day brings a sprinkling of rain, which the Stormlanders swear is lucky, Elenei blessing the marriage, though the sun occasionally peeks out from behind the clouds. 

It casts watery light on the lines of her gown; Branda smooths her hands over her bodice, over and over again, where the paneling forms a sharp V, a weirwood in silver stitching sprouting out of its center. Its gnarled roots escape the off-white bodice and trail down the solemn grey overskirts of her gown, as well as the pale skirt of her kirtle underneath. It’s a very simple design, aside from the beadwork representing the eyes of the weirwood on her chest; that is amber, though the mouth is still a jagged hint of red. 

While not at all immodest by southron standards, this is the lowest bodice cut she’s ever worn; it covers the tops of her breasts and only hints, rather than demonstrates, but she’s not used to showing more than her collarbones on occasion, and most of the gowns she would wear at home have high, fur-lined necklines to keep off the wind chill. This gown bares the tops of her shoulders, though the sleeves do come well down to her wrists, so as not to be crude. 

She likes throwing her arms around to see how they whisper, like the feathery wings of a bird, she thinks. She stops this after she almost clouts Nan, who seems a bit baffled by her jittery behavior. 

The necklace around her throat is a gift from Mother; a torc of bronze and black iron, the same materials of the crowns of the old Stark kings. Branda is not used to paying much attention to her neck, which is not as slender and graceful as Lyarra’s, but now she does, and she likes it very much, fingering the wolves’ heads snarling at each other across her collar. The bronze rings on her fingers are from the mountain Flints; a wolf, a bear, and a ram. 

Her hair, however, is a concession to the southrons and the Stormlanders specifically; it is done up in one of their local styles by Nan herself, whose deft fingers thrum against Branda’s scalp like an instrument. Branda is no stranger to plaits and braids; they are very popular in the North as well, and all over, for married woman. 

But now her wavy dark hair is gathered into a braid that is pinned around the back of her scalp and then gathers into two loops covering her ears, framing either side of her round face. From the thick looped braids hang silver-and-amber ornaments, which jangle softly under her hidden ears whenever she moves too quickly.

She feels a little silly when she is entering the Rogers’ strange sept (even here, the floor is black and white) and she sees Harrold. 

Now she understands her gown is just an imitation of what a seamstress in White Harbor thought southron fashions might look like, and indeed a very far cry from the very layered and elaborate gowns his mother and sister are wearing; far more modest, too; she is suddenly glad her shoulders are still covered in the sept by her maiden’s cloak, with the obsidian-eyed and pearl-toothed direwolf snarling across the back. 

Still, she feels beautiful, and surely that is no great sin, even in a sept. She never feared she might be ugly as a child; Mother will often say that Lyarra was the more skinny, colty looking one when they were little girls, while Branda was plump and pink-cheeked. 

Still, as they aged, and Lyarra’s looks grew less gawky and more handsome and refined, and Branda… well, still looked a good bit like that plump, pink-cheeked little girl, she did sometimes envy her sister. Besides, Lyarra had someone to praise her looks; Rickard, thought, to be fair to her sister, getting profound compliments from Rickard aside from ‘you look well’ is like pulling teeth from a shadowcat. 

The sept blurs around her for most of the ceremony; she blames the thick incense and burning lantern oils for that, but what she can make out of it, above all, are the life-size figures of the Father and the Mother looming over them. 

Here the Mother is clearly designed after the old goddess Elenei; she very much resembles the fresco in that bedchamber, and her eyes are mother-of-pearl, her swirling marble hair draped with seashells, and the babe at her breast is anointed in gold; a godly child. 

The Father must be Durran Godsgrief, then; the wind seems to tear at his robes, though not his scales, and his expression is set in severe determination, just shy of a defiant scowl. His eyes are glittering black onyx, his scales shimmering bronze. 

Harrold’s clothes look like a slightly adapted version of this Father’s; his tunic is long and black, almost more like a maester’s robes, though it is rich black wool, and studded richly with silver brocade and intricate amber beadwork. His cloak is fastened on his right shoulder with that same unicorn pin, and falls to his hips, draping over his chest as well as his back, though it reveals the sheathed sword at his hip, in its ceremonial scabbard, the amber of its pommel shining brightly in the candlelight. 

Without the cast or the crutch, his hair carefully trimmed and oiled, he looks very different from the man who brought her to his castle’s godswood just a week before, who knelt before the heart tree with her, though it must have caused him great pain, and let her beseech her gods to accept the match, before she pulled him back to his feet and he wrapped his cloak around them both. 

They did not kiss on the lips, for their mothers were still close by, but they embraced. It felt a bit awkward and silly, but she felt better for it later. And he could not carry her out of the godswood, but they did hold hands until they were back indoors. 

In Branda’s mind that was the real ceremony of marriage, not this, though she tries to listen attentively to what Septon Mandor is saying, though she gives up in trying to keep up with any of the hymns, and just hums along. 

Very soon, she is holding Harrold- Hal, he said, “You should call me Hal, after the wedding,” to her, that first night they’d met- she is holding Hal’s hands, and he hers, his cloak removed and draped over her instead, and his brown eyes gleam in the lights when the septon proclaims them man and wife. 

Branda almost misses his kiss because she reflexively turns towards the applauding pews, but he catches the corner of her mouth, and she rises up on the tiptoes of her deerskin slippers to properly kiss him back. 

Her father hoots; little Jorah cheers, and when she looks around, her mother is smiling genuinely and openly for the first time in weeks, while Lyarra is holding Rickard’s arm and whispering in his ear, grinning. 

“I forgot to tell you,” Hal says, as they very slowly lead the procession out of the sept, the crush of the crowd hot around them, like a summer haze. 

“What?” Branda asks eagerly, relieved to be going downstairs for the feast. Her legs are aching from all that standing and kneeling and standing again. 

“The first course,” he says, “I asked Cook especially for you. It’s nettle stew, your favorite.”

Branda gapes at him for a moment; his eyes are twinkling, they are, and she likes how possessively he still holds her hand between his own, cradling it like a bird. Then she throws back her head so her hair ornaments jangle, and laughs until there’s tears in her grey eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes:
> 
> 1\. So this fic is going to have a lot of time skips (though less as the closer we get to the 280s). The next chapter will *not* be from Branda's POV, and will take place about six years later. It's also going to be darker in tone, so I don't want anyone to be too shocked, since these first two chapters were pretty light-hearted. 
> 
> 2\. The North is far from the only region in Westeros which had its own gods before the Andals brought the Faith of the Seven over, and in the Stormlands especially, Elenei and Durran Godsgrief still feature prominently in a lot of local mythology and religious iconography, with artists combining Elenei and the Mother and Maiden left and right. 
> 
> 3\. Melantha Blackwood is not actually Branda's grandmother, she is her great-aunt, the second wife of Willam Stark (who is the older brother of Rodrik), mother of Edwyle and Jocelyn, and grandmother to Rickard. But the Stark relations are really confusing and Branda's actual grandmother Lorra Royce died well before she was born, so she's always known Melantha as her grandmother. Melantha is the cousin of Betha Blackwood, who was the queen of Aegon V. So that gave the Starks a serious ego boost at the time, with the Lady Stark being cousins with the queen. But by 261 AC, Betha has been dead for several years, and Jaehaerys II is currently king. 
> 
> 4\. If you find food descriptions boring, I sincerely apologize, but I was trying to make a point as to how different the food is in the Stormlands than what Branda is used to. 
> 
> 5\. It is a bit of a scandal for a Stark, a member of a Great House, to be seen gallivanting around Essos serving as a 'common' mercenary. Fighting in lord-approved battles are one thing; selling your sword can sometimes be seen as a bit trashy and gauche, to Edwyle Stark's eyes, especially since Rodrik was never actually a commander or officer in any of those sellsword companies, just a common soldier hopping from war to war. 
> 
> 6\. This week in fashion mishaps, Branda finds herself wearing a 'southron' gown more in the style of what is popular in the Crownlands or the Reach than in the Stormlands, but we'll excuse it because she looks great. 
> 
> 7\. Hal is a fairly devout follower of the Seven, so kudos to him for letting Branda have her own little makeshift abridged wedding ceremony a week prior in the godswood. The gist of this chapter was just to establish how adaptable Branda is, while still attached to her own family and traditions, and to give a sense for what Amberly is like and the other families the Rogers are connected to. Next chapter we will see some of the town and a funeral (unfortunately).


	3. Leona I

267 AC - AMBERLY

The day Jeyne dies, the burning takes nearly all day, because it’s spring, and wet and foggy out. The Golden Horn is Amberly’s only inn, and has never seen much business, since the town itself is no major port, though it does decent business with shipments of amber both north and south. Though amber is not so desired as it once was, these days. 

Leona’s father leaves The Golden Horn in the hands of Violet, who helps Leona’s mother see that all the rooms are clean, beds made, and floors swept. He tells the cook, Raff, to only serve a set of list of foods, no special orders, so that things are less confusing. And he brings Jeyne’s body in a small casket out to the yard and into a small cart. 

Leona is lifted up into the cart besides the pinewood casket. She traces the engravings in the wood; it still reeks of sawdust. Her father can only read and write a little, her mother not much more, but Leona has always been told she is clever for her age, and she knows the casket says JEYNE, and the year she was born, 265 AC, and the year she died. 

This year. Today. Just before dawn. She’d stopped coughing two hours before that, and Leona was sleeping in the bed beside her, and could feel when her little body stopped breathing. 

She woke up her mother, who woke her father with her wail when the glass pressed to Jeyne’s lips had no fog on it, and when her chest would not rise and fall no matter how much it was prodded and shaken. Leona sat with her back against the wall, rocking her head back into the wood paneling, the small etching of the Mother hung above their bed fluttering from the movement. 

Her father had taken Jeyne’s body from her sobbing mother, and held it to his chest like a doll, and sat there on his knees on the floor until it was light out. Then he sent her mother for someone, and when she was gone, looked at Leona, still rocking herself back and forth, her knees under her chin, and said, “She was my only true child in this world. And you are still here.” 

And then he began to cry, as she had never seen him cry before, until he was heaving and choking on his tears. 

Leona had wiped a line of snot from under her nose, and watched him with dry, aching eyes. She did all her crying for Jeyne in the days before that. It was not fair. Jeyne was her baby sister. When she was born Leona had wanted nothing more than to hold her for hours and breathe in her strange baby smell, almost sickly sweet. 

She had bathed her and changed her with Mother and dressed her in her swaddling clothes, and rocked her cradle. She would bring her gifts, too, wildflowers and seashells and little vials of holy oil from the sept. When she could crawl, Leona watched her like a hawk, always wary of the rickety stairs leading down into the common room, or splinters from the floors. Even this year, when Jeyne was two, Leona would still try to carry her around on her hip, the way Mother once carried her. 

Jeyne looked like Mother; she had dark hair and a rounded face, with very pink lips and big brown eyes. Like Leona’s father, too; she had his sharp nose and ears. 

Leona does not look much like either of them; her hair is a thin dishwater blonde that looks nicest when it’s properly washed and combed and soaking up the sunlight off the sea, and her eyes are blue, a greenish sort of light blue. Her face is thinner and longer than her mother’s or her father’s, and her nose is long and thin as well, her mouth wide, revealing many teeth when she grins, though now they mostly have gaps between them because she has started to lose her baby teeth. 

She thinks about what her father said as the cart rattles down the road to the sept. People are coming up behind it like a procession on a feast day; some are singing or praying aloud or trying to take her mother’s trembling hands. Her father drives the old nag with one hand, and keeps the other resting protectively on the casket with Jeyne inside. 

What is a true child, Leona wonders, watching a gull coast in from the sea in the distance, riding the wind. She likes birds. She’d like to be one when she dies, because she heard a story once from a traveler, and he said we could come back as whatever we liked. Violet said that was nonsense and heresy. Maybe Jeyne is the gull. Leona refuses to look away from it, even when people try to talk to her, even when rain gets in her eyes, afraid it will disappear, and Jeyne with it. 

The buildings in town are mostly white-washed, and the sept is no exception, though it is very small. The gull disappears behind a cloud as the cart rumbles to a stop. Her mother and father bring the casket inside; someone else takes Leona by the hand and leads her down from the cart. 

Whatever is going on inside the sept must be private, because she is made to wait out in the yard, where an old cat laps water from a bucket besides the well, and a scraggly poplar tree sprouts up between cracked mosaic stones depicting the Light of the Seven. 

After a while, they come back out with the casket and the septon and two old septas. Leona is lifted back into the cart by her mother, and they go rumbling down to the seashore, to one of the stone firepits. 

Leona sits in the sand on her father’s cloak while they build up the fire, and after several tries, get flames. The casket is set amidst it and piled with wood and brush. Leona watches oils glug out of jars, soaking through the pinewood, and then it is alight. It does not burn fast, with the wind and rain, but it burns. 

Leona feels like she might cry out and scream and tell them Jeyne is in there, until she spots another gull flying along the shore, and feels a little better. Jeyne is not really inside that box, she tells herself. That’s just a dried up old shell. She is in the air now, flying away from all of this, diving low and swooping back up high, oblivious to the cries of their mother and the prayers chanted over the crackle of the flames. 

“What is a true child?” Leona asks the septa standing beside her. She is old enough to be her grandmother, but she has a kind face. 

The old woman blinks, and then says, softly, “A trueborn child is born within a marriage, in wedlock, as the gods intended when they made us men and women.”

“What’s not a true child?” Leona is confused. 

The septa pauses, then says, “A natural child. Illegitimate. One who was born to an unwed mother, or… or not sired by a woman’s husband.”

Leona is not stupid; she knows what ‘sired’ means and she knows how babies are made. She’s seen goats, pigs, sheep, cows, cats, and dogs all make them, and heard plenty of people make them too, groaning and yelping in their inn beds. 

She has heard her own parents, moving in the night, making strange sighs and cries, and the whispered conversations that follow, before they blow out the candle and go to sleep. 

My mother was wed when I was born, she tells herself. I am true. I don’t know why my father said I wasn’t. 

When the burning has done, all that is left of the casket are moldering ashes, drifting around in the wind off the sea. The tide is coming in; the waves pound as the septon and septas take their leave. Leona watches her mother and father, who stand together, gazing down at the pit. Her trailing fingers find something in the sand; she holds up a piece of sea glass in surprise. It’s mid afternoon now, and the light catches at the bright green of it. 

“Look what I found,” she says, pushing herself off the sand. “Mumma. Da. Look, I found glass, it’s from Jeyne, it’s for her, Elenei sent it-,”

The look her father gives her drives her backwards; he does not even have to touch her. She loses her footing in the damp sand and stumbles, landing on her bottom. 

“I have prayed to forgive you,” he says to her mother, hoarsely. “Gods, I have, Moira. No more. No more. I want her gone. Take her up to the castle. I should have done it years ago. As soon as she was weaned.”

“No,” her mother says, voice rising with the tides. “No, how can you- she is your daughter, how can you say such a thing, Daven- Davi, look at me, please, look-,”

He shrugs away her pleading hands. “No. Take her. I can’t. I won’t have it. She belongs with her kin. Six years- six years raising a dead man’s bastard! Father’s bones, how can you do this to me? What more do you want? I tried- she is not mine!”

“She is, she is-,” 

Leona had dropped the sea glass when she fell, but there it is again, glinting greenly up at her. She scoops it up and tucks it in the pocket of her smock, and wanders a distance away, so her ears will pound less and her parents will become distant, tiny figures. She watches them shout and gesture, storm away and back together, up and down, around the fire pit, where tendrils of smoke are still wafting up. 

At one point her mother falls to her knees besides the pit, and begins to daub herself in the ashes; the wind almost drown out her rising scream. Her father bodily carries her down to the shore to wash them off her skin; the grey streaks that were once Jeyne. They brought a pot down to gather the rest in, so they can be given back to the sea in seven months’ time, when the mourning period has ended. 

Leona feels the sea glass grow warmer and warmer from the heat of her clenched fist, until she imagines it might crack open in a jet of magical light, and turn her into a gull too, so she can join Jeyne, flying overhead, away from all of this. 

By the time they have shouted themselves out, it is late afternoon. Her mother comes back to her; her father stays by the pit, with the pot clutched under his arm. 

“My girl,” she says. “We are going to visit the castle. Would you like that? You haven’t been since Maiden’s Day. We’ll take the wagon road, so we won’t lose our way.”

Leona knows it is not really a question. She nods, patting the sea glass in her pocket. 

Her mother looks relieved, though her eyes are red and swollen, her lips cracked and bloodied from chewing them ragged these past five days that Jeyne was sickly. She was still nursing her, until Jeyne would not take the teat anymore. Now she mops at her face for a moment with her wet hands, then takes Leona’s hand in hers. 

The cart seems much larger without her father in it. Leona kneels in the back and watches him disappear from view; he seems very small and sad, on his hands and knees in the sand, collecting the ashes of Jeyne. She almost feels sorry for him, then remembers the look he gave her, and doesn’t all at once. 

“Is my father really a lord?” she asks her mother as they head off towards the wagon road. It’s hard to find unless you grew up here, only marked by the stone figure of a unicorn on a post, almost entirely overgrown with brambles and vines, especially in the spring. “And not Da?”

Her mother says nothing, as if she had not heard her at all, and flicks the reins to urge Bessie, the horse, to move faster. Last week Leona lifted Jeyne up so she could feed Bessie a carrot from the vegetable garden. She was never very heavy, Jeyne; she was born little and mostly stayed that way. Mother says Leona is tall for her age, but now she wishes she were shorter. Maybe if she was as little as Jeyne was, they would not be taking her up to the castle. 

Leona doesn’t know what is going to happen there, and wonders how Lord Harrold could be her father. Sometimes in the town they call him Ser Hal, only not in his earshot. He does not really look the way a lord does in her head. In her head, a lord has grey hair and a beard and rides on a magnificent white stallion with his cloak streaming out behind him. Lord Harrold is not nearly old enough, and while he does have a beard, it’s not greying yet, and his stallion is black with a grey blaze down its face, not white, like in the stories. 

They say the first Rogers, Ser Benedict, he rode to battle on a unicorn. When it died its horn broke off and where it touched the earth, you could find amber. Also, it could purify water and bless babes. They say the Rogers still have the horn, that they keep it in a chamber with all their other treasures from the days of the Coming of the Andals, and old ancient boons from the Targaryens, who raised them to lords for swearing fealty so promptly and serving so well in the wars. 

The wagon road up to the castle is the widest path through the maze, though it’s only known to the townsfolk. It comes up the hills at an odd angle, starting closer to the coves than the town itself, but if you know your way, it’s not a very long ride. Leona is almost lulled to sleep by the familiar motion of the cart, especially now that it’s stopped raining, and the sun is coming out just in time for dusk in a little while. 

“Am I going to live in the castle now?” she asks Mother, prodding her arm. “What about you?”

“I am going to speak with Lord Harrold,” her mother says. Leona can tell she is trying to sound strong and brave, but really her voice is all trembly, like a leaf. “And then we’ll see.”

She wonders if Mother is afraid of Lord Harrold, though he’s never frightened Leona. She’s even seen him come into the inn before, though not often. The last time he came in was during a market day, and that was because they were selling fresh flowers and he wanted some for his lady wife. Leona has seen her before, too, but never up close. 

The other children say she’s a strange northwoman, and that her mother was a wildling and her father is a sellsword who’s fought in every war. They say she worships demons who live in trees and sometimes she makes them bleed, the trees. And also that all her children were born with wooly fur, but it sloughed off in the bath and now they look like ordinary babes. 

But she does good business with the townsfolk during market days, and she’s always open-handed with her alms, so besides that most people seem to think she’s alright, even if Lord Harrold should have married a Stormlander woman, as his sister Lady Fiona married that Connington knight. 

The wagon road is wet and slippery, so the going is longer than usual, and as they come to one bend in it, there’s a newly felled tree blocking the path. Leona thinks it must have been from the storm yesterday; the wind was howling and moaning outside and all the windows were shuttered. Mother was trying to get Jeyne to drink some water, while Father was mopping mud off the stairs, swearing to himself every time they heard a shingle fly off the roof. 

The cart grinds to a halt as Bessie slows, nickering wearily 

Mother clambers down from the seat, slipping in the muck, but the tree is much to large for her to move, and there’s no way for the cart to fit around it. The only sounds around them are those of the forest; birds chirping, the wind rustling the green leaves, and the distant rushing of a stream coming down to the sea. The trees are so dense you can barely see the sky at all. 

Leona suddenly remembers the tale of the Maze Knight. His name was Ser Ganelon and he had an ancient rivalry with Ser Benedict from all the way back in Andalos, because Ser Benedict had killed his brother in a duel for love. Ser Ganelon followed Ser Benedict across the sea, and said that for love of his brother he would destroy all brave Ser Benedict held dear. 

However, he could not be sure where Ser Benedict had settled, and the Stormlands were a strange and foreign place for an Andal warrior. For many years he searched. Meanwhile Ser Benedict wed and built his keep and grew his maze. By the time Ser Ganelon found him, they were both old men, long in the tooth and grey in the beard, but both still powerful fighters. Ser Benedict rode down to meet Ser Ganelon’s challenge, and they fought on the beach, while the court of the gods of storm and sea watched from the clouds and the surf, placing wagers. 

Ser Ganelon believed he triumphed when Ser Benedict collapsed, and rode off to reach the castle of Amberly, so he could slay Benedict’s innocent wife and sons as well. But Ser Benedict was only unconscious and wounded, not dead, and the goddess Elenei had pity and woke him with a wave, which healed his wounds. Ser Benedict found his horse and rode after Ser Ganelon in pursuit, desperate to save his family. 

Yet the maze was Ser Ganelon’s undoing. Boldly, he plunged into the wood, but before long he was lost. Not only could he not reach the castle, he could not find his way back out, either. For seven days and nights he roamed the maze, growing more and more desperate and furious, while Ser Benedict made it home safely and held his family close. When he went back to search for Ser Ganelon, to finish him once and for all, he found only Ser Ganelon’s horse, exhausted, drinking from a stream. The rider was never seen again.

But, Violet’s daughter Rhae told Leona, once, as they were sweeping out the root cellar, down in the musty dark, “Sometimes you can still hear Ser Ganelon screaming- or hear him hacking through the trees with his great axe- he’s just a suit of bones and armor now, gnashing his teeth, and worms live in his skull-,”

Mother is untying Bessie from the cart. “We’ll have to lead her up,” she says. 

Leona wraps her arms around herself nervously as they skirt past the massive felled tree, covered in green moss and lichen, draped with tangled vines. They might try to grab her, like Ser Ganelon. Once past it, Mother lets he scramble atop Bessie’s back; Leona knows how to ride bareback, her father- well, he’s supposed to be her father, he taught her last year, how to keep ahold of a horse without a saddle or reins. 

You can only do it with a gentle, well-broken old horse like Bessie, though. Else it will be your death, he said, then smiled and ruffled Leona’s blonde hair. And we can’t have that, can we?

Maybe he wishes she were dead today instead of Jeyne, if she’s not really his child for true. 

The wood seems more intimidating without the security of the cart. Leona clutches onto Bessie as Mother leads her by the reins, burying her face in Bessie’s mane. She smells like the stables, and the foul cream they use to keep off flies. If she is really a lord’s daughter, maybe he will give her a pony, a new, young one, not an old nag like Bessie. But that doesn’t make her feel any better. 

She doesn’t want to be anyone’s daughter but Daven’s. She wants to go home and sleep in her own bed, and eat dinner in the kitchens with the rest of the workers. She wants to pet the kittens sleeping by the cooking fire and she wants to play those clapping games on the stairs with Ella and Bet, whose mothers work as serving wenches. Ladies probably aren’t allowed to play games like that. They have to do needlework all day and listen to their septas and aren’t ever allowed to have muddy hems. That’s what Rhae told her. 

“Maybe we should go back,” she says, as the wind begins to pick up again, rushing through the trees. A few leaves float down overhead, falling to the ground. “Maybe.. Maybe Da isn’t so angry anymore, and… and he won’t want me to go.”

Mother is pretending to not hear her again.

“Mumma,” Leona says. “I think we should go back. Let’s go home.” She has been in this wood many times, but suddenly it seems strange and cold. She imagines eyes are watching them from the trees. A shadowcat or a pack of wolves or a wild boar. Or Ser Ganelon, stroking his rusty axe, gnashing his teeth. 

“We can’t,” Mother says. “This- that’s not your home anymore.”

“Yes it is. You’re my mother.” 

Unless that’s not true either. Leona feels her stomach go all loose and watery. What if she is not Mother’s baby, either? Maybe they just found her in a cabbage patch. Or maybe the grumkins stole her away and she is just a copy, not really alive at all. She pokes at her skin, trying to feel for her pulse at her skinny wrist. No, she’s alive. She has to be alive. 

“I am,” Mother says, “but-,”

There’s the sound of hoofbeats. Bessie whinnies in alarm as a dozen riders come trotting around the bend; the maze muffles noise so much that they were not even heard until they were nearly atop them. 

Mother stiffens and leads a balking Bessie over to the side of the narrow road, but the riders have halted. 

“Get down,” she tells Leona; Leona slides off Bessie’s back and takes Mother’s hand, half behind her. The men are in Rogers colors; black trimmed with silver, and their helms are horned like a unicorn must be, she imagines. 

But the head rider is not in Rogers colors, but in a midnight blue, though his cloak is black. He dismounts and comes right over to them; Leona shies back, and Mother cries out, “My lord!” as if to stop him from coming any closer. 

He stops then, and Leona sees that it really is Lord Harrold; she recognizes his face, at least. He has a very ordinary sort of face; a common face, she once heard someone jape. That is to say, he looks as though he could be the butcher or the baker, not a rich lord. Lords and ladies are supposed to be more beautiful, because their blood is better. 

That’s how it was explained to her. The gods graced them with beauty because they are the blood of kings and queens, and that’s the natural way of things. The Seven don’t make ugly kings and queens. The most beautiful of all are the Targaryens, and that’s why they must be Kings of Everything, Leona assumes. 

They say King Aerys is very handsome, and his sister-wife, Queen Rhaella, is as beautiful as the Maiden herself. Their hair is woven of gold and silver and their eyes are like amethysts. Their skin is as perfect as porcelain and they have fine, rich voices, like bells and harps. 

Lord Harrold’s voice is not like a bell or a harp. He just sounds like a man. A wary man, though she doesn’t know why he’d be wary of them. 

“Goodwife Moira,” he says. “What cause have you to be out here so late? Is there trouble in town?”

“No, my lord,” Mother says, “only- my daughter Jeyne died this morning,” her voice cracks in half, and Leona is almost ashamed. 

Pity crosses Lord Harrold’s broad face. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he says. “We shall have Septon Mandor include her in our prayers tonight, and I will come to the inn soon, to speak with Daven-,”

“My husband bid me bring my Leona to you,” Mother interrupts him, which you are never, ever to do. Leona knows that much, and has to hide her face, she is so embarrassed and afraid. He might strike Mother, or shout at her. You never interrupt a lord. Father- her father taught her that. When a highborn speaks you don’t say anything until you are spoken to. 

Lord Harrold says nothing for a long moment, and one of the men on horseback calls to him. He turns and holds up a fist, telling them to wait, then turns back to Mother and Leona. 

“I see,” he says, finally. “Leona, come here.”

Leona thinks she must have misheard until Mother pushes her forward. She doesn’t want to go so close to him, but she has no choice. Her ratty shoes sink deep into the squelchy mud. She can feel Bessie’s warm horsey breath down her back. There’s sand all over her, and her hair is a tangled mess from the wind. Ser Harrold crouches down a little to get a better look at her.

Up close, she can see how young he is, younger than her mother, a man grown, but certainly not an old or weathered one. 

Then he straightens back up, brow furrowed. “Yes,” he says, to Mother. “Alright. Well, the girl can ride with me, and you can ride with Ser Randyll, Goodwife.”

“Better- better I go back, my lord,” Mother says tentatively. “Daven… my husband will be needing me, and… and I’ve work to do. Better not… better if you just take her, I think.” 

He pauses again, then nods, and steps away. 

Leona turns to Mother, who is crying. “I don’t want to go with him,” she says, too loudly. Mother shushes her, then pulls her close. 

“I know,” she says, petting Leona’s hair. “I know, but this is for the best. You’ll see. You’ll… things will be better for you there. And you can… you can come see me, by and by, once you’re settled. You’ll like it. You have kin there.”

“I don’t want kin there, I want you,” Leona says, beginning to cry as she hasn’t all day. The tears stream down her face and taste salty, like the sea. 

Mother tries to kiss them away, but they keep coming. “I know,” she says. “I know. But soon, you won’t. You won’t anymore, and you’ll be better for it. Goodbye, sweetling. I love you.”

“I love you,” Leona says, but when Mother moves away, she tries to follow her, and Lord Harrold has to take her by the arm. “Let go,” she says, but it comes out low and squeaky. 

He picks her up, as easily as he might a doll, and she doesn’t dare kick and scream in a lord’s arms. Instead she peers over his shoulder as Mother moves away, leading Bessie back down the road, until he’s put her in his saddle, and climbed up behind her. 

“Here,” he says, taking her dirty hands in his gloved ones. “You can hold the reins.” 

But she doesn’t want them, she just slumps against him, useless, weeping, so he has to let go of her hands and take them up himself. Whatever he says to the men with him- something about the tree- she doesn’t hear. Then he’s turned his big horse around, and they are cantering- not trotting- uphill, into the deepest part of the wood, into the shadow of Amberly. 

She doesn’t remember entering the castle because soon she closes her eyes, so all she can hear is the wind in the trees, the hoofbeats and snuffles of the horse, Lord Harrold’s breathing, and her own sniffles as she wipes blindly at her face. There are crusty tear tracks down her splotchy cheeks, and her lower lip won’t stop trembling. She tucks her chin down against her chest and huddles into herself, shoulders hunched, until she realizes they are riding into the castle, over the moat and under the aqueduct. 

Leona opens her eyes when she hears the gates closing behind them. Lord Harrold clambers down from the saddle, then takes her by the waist and sets her gently on the ground. Leona has been inside the castle before, but feels she was just a baby then. Everything seems more vivid, now. She shuffles nervously from foot to foot on the stones of the courtyard; wherever there is not grass or trees, there are stones, black or white, an unending checkered pattern. 

Another man has come over and is talking to Lord Harrold; Leona does not realize she’s being addressed until the man, who has a narrow, but kindly face, with dark eyes and a balding scalp, tells her he is Master Sewell, the steward, and wouldn’t she like to come meet his wife and have a bath and eat something? Leona glances back at Lord Harrold, who just nods for her to go with Master Sewell, and sees there is no choice in the matter. 

She takes Master Sewell’s hand, which is soft and leathery, and walks with him to a set of stone stairs leading up not to the outer walls, but to the keep itself, built up around the yard. She wonders what they do if the castle is attacked. Once soldiers come over the walls, it’s not as if they can flee further into the castle, unless they mean to hide in the godswood. Maybe the cellars? Or the master’s turret; the tower it juts out of seems more secure, wedged between other buildings and difficult to reach from the ramparts. 

If the town is ever attacked, the townsfolk are supposed to flee up into the castle or into the cove, and hide in the caves there, the ones you can only stay in when the tide is out. Once it comes in, you’ll drown. But her father- not her father- he said that drowning was kinder than other deaths, better than bleeding or burning. 

The steward and his wife live in a set of rooms over the kitchens; she can smell them from here. Mistress Sewell looks a lot like her husband; they could almost be siblings, or cousins, though luckily for her she is not balding. She has a maid called Janna, and together with a boy called Connor, they bring up a wooden tub for Leona to have a bath in. 

Leona hasn’t bathed since two days past, and begins to wonder what she smells like; sweat and dirt and sand and ashes and horse, probably. In the room where she takes a bath there is only one window, a circle of green-gold colored glass that sends an odd shaft of light down on her while Janna scrubs at her scalp and down her arms and legs and back. 

Leona has only ever been bathed by her mother before; she and Jeyne would sit in the same tub, flinging bubbles at each other, and pulling each other’s hair, while Mother dumped buckets of hot water on their heads, scolding when they splashed or stood up, dripping dirty water across the floor. She misses the warmth of Jeyne’s small body beside her in the tub, and shiver so violently that Janna checks to see if she has caught a chill. 

She expects to put on her old clothes after she’s bathed, but those are gone; she wonders if they’re going to burn them, or use them for cleaning rags. She sits in a towel on a bed under the window, picking at the small tray of bread and cheese and fruit left out for her, until she stops when Mistress Sewell comes in with Janna. Mistress Sewell has two grown daughters, she tells Leona in a no-nonsense way, though she is trying to smile, and they left behind most of their girlhood clothes when they went off and married. 

Even Leona knows that the dress they are putting her in is a good twenty years out of date, but it is still richer material than anything she has ever worn. It’s a little big on her; it was made for an older girl, closer to ten than six or seven, but at least it is not too short on her, or embarrassingly long and puddled around her feet. It’s a peachy orange color with little buttery yellow flowers stitched across the sleeves and bodice, and they give her a fresh shift and stockings, too, and an old pair of slippers. 

Janna combs quickly through her damp hair and then gives her a simple linen bonnet to keep it from falling lank and wet in her face. Leona jerks away when the maid tries to tie it for her; she can tie her own bonnet strings, she’s not a baby, she’s six and a half, she thinks, resentfully. When she is done she turns back to the two older woman, who inspect her the way Mother would inspect slabs of meat from the butcher. 

“She does have his look,” Janna says, but says no more than that after the sharp glance Mistress Sewell gives her. 

Whose look? Lord Harrold’s? Leona looks nothing like him. Maybe they’re all just confused and this is one big mistake, and she really is her father’s daughter and he will be sorry he sent her away. Fathers and mothers are always sorry for sending their children out into the wilderness in the stories, and suffer terribly for their cruelty. 

Maybe her father will drop dead and really be sorry, lying flat in his back in the hot inn kitchen. Then she thinks he’s be happy for that; he’d be with baby Jeyne. That doesn’t make her feel much better. 

“Well,” Mistress Sewell says to her, “We are going to see the ladies, how do you like that, my girl?”

Leona does not like that. “Is Lord Harrold my father for true or false?” she asks, abruptly. 

Janna the maid squawks, her ruddy face reddening all the more in amusement, but Mistress Sewell just presses her thin lips together, then says, “No, sweetling. But he is your kin.”

No he isn’t, Leona thinks, but doesn’t dare say it. She doesn’t know if nobles hit their children, but her mother and father would give her a crack for talking back, or running through the inn, or forgetting her chores and going off to play instead. 

Mistress Sewell takes her by the hand, and leads her out of these rooms, across a walkway with more stained glass windows, under which the aqueduct rushes along, then into another section of the keep, up some more stairs onto a higher level, and then down a brightly lit hall, past several guards playing dice, who stop playing dice very quickly when they see Mistress Sewell coming. As she stops to chasten them, a door creaks open, and two little dogs go rushing out. 

“Stop them!” a child shouts. 

Leona picks up one of the dogs as it rushes past; it’s a little yappy thing, with floppy ears and a fluffy curved tail. Its eyes are bright and dark and its fur is cream and white; the other little dog, which Mistress Sewell catches with the help of a guard, is black and tan, but of the same breed. A boy is standing in the doorway of what must be private rooms; Leona can hear muffled conversation; Lord Harrold is speaking, and faint music, and things being rustled about. 

The boy is a little younger than her, though nearly as tall as her, and he has a big, blocky sort of head, too, like Lord Harrold. His hair is dark and wavy and long, nearly to his shoulders, though his eyes are a warm brown, and his nose broad. He looks strong, even for a boy who can’t be any older than five. He’s dressed in dark grey and yellow, and he jerks his head at the squirming dog in her arms, and says, “That’s Orys. Careful, he’s nippy.”

Mistress Sewell comes over with the darker dog.

“And that’s Argy,” the boy says. “She’s getting fat.”

“Leona,” Mistress Sewell says, “this is Gareth, Lord Harrold’s firstborn son.”

Orys nips at her; Leona winces, and follows the steward’s wife and the boy through the doorway. 

Inside is some sort of room she has never been in before; it’s not a bedchamber, or a dining hall. It must be like a common room for highborns, she assumes, though maybe just for ladies, since most of those present are ladies, though they are leaving. Leona vaguely recognizes a few of them as the wives of local knights who sometimes ride through town, but others she doesn’t know at all. Most are older, old enough to be her mother, though a few are maidens, who give her sideways glances and whisper behind their hands as they go, a maid or two trailing after them. 

The door shuts behind them, and Leona lets Orys down. He dances around her feet, shaking his tail and his bottom and barking; he has the bark of a much bigger and hardier dog. Then he stops barking, sniffs, licks her shoes, and runs back over to his masters, along with his friend, Argy. 

Lord Harrold is standing besides two women; one is his mother, Lady Cynthea, and what Leona can see of her blonde hair is streaked with silvery grey. Her eyes are like mine, she thinks suddenly, blue. The other, Lady Branda, is short and stout and dark haired, with startling grey eyes, and she is seated, nursing a babe at her breast. That must be Florence, the babe; Lady Branda had a daughter three moons ago, she remembers, because everyone was talking about the babe being born on Maiden’s Day, and how lucky that was. 

There is another little boy seated sullenly at their feet on a plush velvet footstool; he looks a good deal like Gareth and Lord Harrold, with the same eyes and hair. He scrunches up his mouth at the sight of her, and clutches at his mother’s legs; he looks no older than three. 

“Well,” Lord Harrold says, a bit awkwardly. “There she is. Leona.”

Leona belatedly curtsies, though there is dog fur on her hands now. 

Lady Cynthea has begun to weep when Leona looks back up; she looks away again, tensing. How could she have upset the woman so much already?

“Gods be good, Hal,” Lady Branda says, crossly. “The poor girl is terrified. Have you told her anything at all?”

“No,” says Lord Harrold, looking a little miffed.

“Well, I should think now would do nicely,” she says, and reaches over and squeezes his hand, as if to soften her sharp words. 

He softens, and squeezes her hand back. 

Gareth has turned back to Leona, his face lit up with excitement, like a puppy waiting for a treat. She has nothing to give him; she frowns. He smiles on, oblivious.

“Leona,” says Lord Harrold, “you are my brother Osric’s daughter.” He clears his throat. “His natural daughter. We had not thought… well, there were always rumors, but- seeing you now, it is…”

Lady Cynthea comes right over to her, and takes Leona’s hands in her own; Lady Cynthea’s hands are papery, and shaking, her bright eyes brimming with tears. “You look just like him,” she says, as one falls down her face and onto Leona. “Just like him. A gift from the gods.” And she crushes her close, smelling of perfume and lemons. 

When she releases Leona; everyone is still staring at her. 

“But Lord Osric died,” Leona says. “A long time ago. How could he be my father? Begging pardon,” she adds, hastily. 

“He… knew your mother after he returned from war. Before his death,” Lord Harrold says, voice going up as if he’s trying not to say something else.

“Oh,” Leona frowns. “Isn’t that a sin?”

Lady Branda snorts and says something under her breath. It doesn’t seem very lady-like. 

“You could never be a sin,” Lady Cynthea presses a kiss to her brow; Leona resists the urge to squirm away. 

“He… had relations with another man’s wife,” Lord Harrold says. “That is a sin, yes. But it is not yours. You are his daughter, and my niece. And I will do everything in my power to give you a good life, Leona.”

Her head hurts. She wipes quickly at her nose. She wants to tell them her sister Jeyne died today, but she was not a bastard, so maybe they won’t care? Or maybe they will? It’s very confusing. The room is too hot, and this dress is scratchy. 

She realizes they are all waiting for her to say something, so she just bobs her heads and says, in a very small voice, “Thank you, m’lord.” 

Only then does she realize she left the sea glass in her old clothes, long since carted away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes:
> 
> 1\. Well, this took a turn! I included Leona in this story because I wanted to do something with a bastard girl growing up in Westeros, and also because I wanted a woman's POV that was in her specific age bracket. Leona will obviously not be a little girl for the rest of the story; the next time we get her POV in this fic, she is 16. (I'm generally not crazy about writing child narrators, and due to the time skips in this fic, we won't have all that many of them). 
> 
> 2\. In case anyone is still confused: Leona is not Harrold's daughter. She is the child of Moira, who runs the town inn with her husband, Devan, and the late Osric Rogers, who died shortly after Leona was conceived. For the first six years of her life she was raised as Moira and Devan's daughter, though there were always rumors about her birth, which her mother denied. The catalyst for Leona being sent up to the castle is the death of her half-sister, Jeyne, who died of illness. 
> 
> 3\. The ASOIAF series itself does not really spend much time on early childhood mortality (GRRM devotes far more time to telling us a frankly astounding number of women who died in childbirth or shortly after giving birth), but the reality is that between infancy and about five years or so was for thousands of years a very dangerous period in a child's life. If a child made it to five without incident, they usually had a decent chance of surviving to adulthood. There is also historical evidence that parents did grieve for their deceased children; it's a misconception that medieval people had 'less love' for their children, viewed them as disposable, or were generally unaffected by their deaths. 
> 
> 4\. I like the idea of there being different burial rites for all of the different kingdoms, so in the Stormlands (or at least in this locale), the dead are cremated, typically on the beach itself or near the ocean, their ashes are collected in urns, and after a mourning period of seven months, their ashes are 'released' back into the sea at high tide. This is derived from what I imagine were the customs before the Andals arrived, so now septons and septas are involved and there are official funeral prayers, etc. 
> 
> 5\. There's probably going to be varying tellings of the origins of House Rogers in this fic. The version Leona has heard is not necessarily the same as the one the Rogers children have, etc. The name 'Ganelon' (as well as Dybele, Mandor, and some others from this fic) are inspired by the names of characters from Roger Zelazny's Chronicles of Amber series, since House Rogers was created by GRRM in honor of his friend. Ganelon is not a villain in that series. Sorry Ganelon. I just thought the name sounded cool and sinister. 
> 
> 6\. As of 267 AC, the Rogers' have three children: Gareth, Julian, and Florence. We will be seeing much more of them. 
> 
> 7\. The dogs they have are based off the kokoni dogs, which are native to Greece. They're small domestic animals that are very easy to train and enjoy being around people. Their tails look like question marks. 
> 
> 8\. Next chapter will be Gareth's POV; we'll be at Storm's End some five years later and seeing a lot of the Baratheons.


	4. Gareth I

272 AC - STORM’S END

Sleeting rains chase them all the way up the coast, and by the time Storm’s End is within sight Gareth is too relieved to be afraid, so glad is he to be escaping the wet autumn weather. He was born in the middle of winter, but remembers none of it; by the time he was three years old and running about it was spring again, the skies clearing and the trees budding green, wildflowers blooming in the hills looking over the wind tossed sea. 

Now he is eight, and after the bright and scorching spring and summer of his recent memory, autumn has been ushered in. The trees were mostly still green when they left Amberly, but as they traveled north along the mountainous and craggy coast, he could see in the valleys spread out below, in the foothills, how they were turning. Now that they are near Storm’s End, what few trees he can see are an impressive array of red, gold, and orange. 

The lands surrounding the fortress are largely rolling plains, ripened to deep browning yellow, contrasting sharply with the grey and thunderous sky overhead. 

His mother doesn’t care much for wheelhouses, and prefers to be in her own saddle, she’ll tell anyone, but had no choice for this trip. Gareth is old enough and tall enough to command a young filly, riding proudly alongside Father and Ser Raymond, his aunt Fiona’s husband, but his brother Julian is only seven, not turning eight until the end of this year, and too small for anything but a pony, and so confined to the wheelhouse with a grumpy Mother and the babies, Flora and Lucas, who are just five and two. 

Gareth enjoys riding, usually; in the wheelhouse you can’t do much except peer out the small windows at the landscape rumbling by, and that will make anyone sick to their stomach if you stare long enough, or talk or read. Mother will tell stories, but eventually even she will tire of speaking, and then his younger siblings will be whining or arguing or asking how much longer they have on the road. But the weather this past week has been bad enough to almost make him cave and ask to ride in the wheelhouse instead of slumping in the saddle, cloak pulled up to keep the spray out of his face. 

Still, he is determined, and now triumphant that he’s succeeded in proving himself. Babies ride in the wheelhouse, clutching at Mother’s skirts, and he is not a baby anymore. Eight and three quarters is nearly nine, and nine is almost old enough to squire, or at least to be a page, which he will be at Storm’s End, a page for the Baratheons, then a squire to Lord Steffon himself. And during feasts he will bear the cup of the Princess Rhaelle, Lord Steffon’s mother, who was born a Targaryen. 

Truth be told, Gareth cried himself to sleep the last night in his warm bed at home, in his chamber with the window that creaks in the wind and the faded bed curtains and the colorful medley of rushes on the floor and the hearth built up of black and white stones, only more are usually black from ashes. 

But in the morning he woke early and washed his face, set on being brave and not showing his fear before his parents or siblings. It’s a great honor to ward for the lords paramount of the Stormlands and no Rogers has ever had such an offer made. Grandmother says it is only because of Mother, because she is a Stark, though that annoys Father, who likes to think it is because he has made a friend of Lord Steffon. 

Gareth doesn’t know and doesn’t really care which of them are more true. He is going to Storm’s End and there he will stay until he comes of age, taking his lessons and training at arms with Lord Steffon’s second son, Stannis, because his eldest, Robert, is off warding in the Vale with the stuffy Arryns, Mother says. Gareth asked if he would go to the Vale too, but Father would not hear of it, and said Storm’s End was certainly far enough, and more reasonable, besides, because the Baratheons are their liege lords, and Valemen don’t matter here. 

Gareth is not sure why Robert is there, then, if that’s true, but he doesn’t know what goes on between the great lords. His father is a lord, just not a great one. That used to confuse him, but he knows enough to understand. A Rogers is not the same as a Stark, or a Baratheon. A Rogers is not even the same as a Connington, the house Aunt Fiona wed into, but about the same as a lesser Connington, which is what his uncle Raymond, Fiona’s husband, is. 

Ser Raymond is the cousin of Lord Armond Connington, and so his son Ronald will never rule Griffin’s Roost the way Gareth will someday rule Amberly. That will go to Jon, Lord Armond’s only child. Ser Raymond wanted Ronald, who is ten, only a little older than Gareth, to go to Storm’s End to foster to, but Aunt Fiona would not hear of it, because Ronald is her only child. She had others, but they died in her belly or in the cradle. 

Gareth knows about that, because it’s happened to Mother too. She had a daughter before him, she and Father, but she came far too early and was just a tiny little shrunken thing, dead before she ever saw the world. But then she had Gareth, then Julian, then Florence, and now Lucas, who is only two and still suckling from her. Aunt Fiona was very happy at the start of their brief visit at Griffin’s Roost, but by the end she did not want to see much of them at all. 

Ser Raymond is coming with them, though, because he and Aunt Fiona had a bad fight about Ronald, who stayed behind, despite his protests. Gareth felt sorry for him, but is secretly glad Ronald isn’t coming. He doesn’t mind his cousin during visits, but after a few days Ronald always turns into a bully, spoilt and bossy. 

Gareth tries not to fight with him, he does, but sooner or later they end up butting heads, and it’s not like when he fights with Julian, who he can easily wrestle to the ground or outrun. Ronald is taller and bigger than him, and does this horrible thing where he jams his wet finger in your ear while he pins your head to his side. Gareth is hopeful, though, that when Jon Connington comes home for a visit from court, he’ll set Ronald straight. It’s a shame Gareth won’t be there to see it. 

“Nervous?” Ser Raymond asks him, as Storm’s End draws ever closer, a massive stone keep large enough to fit three Amberlys behind its imposing walls, it seems to Gareth’s squinting eyes. 

“Don’t tease the boy,” Father says, and leans over in the saddle and claps Gareth’s shoulder. “He’s a brave one.”

Gareth straightens at the praise, hoping his grimace from the rain is taken for a fierce scowl. “I’m not nervous,” he says. He isn’t. He’s not afraid, either, he just feels the way you do at the edge of a big rock, before you jump into water. He’s done that; run out along the seawall that juts into the cove. At some point, you just have to keep running along it, because it’s so slick with slime and seaweed that if you slow down, you’ll slip and crack your head open on the stones. 

You just have to run and jump, even if the wind is rushing in your face and the water is freezing. His cousin Leona taught him how; she grew up in town first, before she came to them, so she knows the beach like the back of her hand. 

Gareth doesn’t think she can count as his best friend, because she’s a girl, and older than him, but if she were a boy she would be. Even bastards can be someone’s best friend. They’re not all bad. That’s what he tells people when they purse their lips or wrinkle their nose when they hear ‘Leona Storm’. 

“Leona’s good,” he always says. “She’s a good girl, not a real bastard.”

Mother says ‘natural daughter’ is better, though, and Septa Dybele agrees. Uncle Osric was ‘of gentle birth’ and even though Leona’s mother was just a common woman, she’s being ‘gently raised’, like a lady. Unlike a lady, though, she doesn’t much enjoy riding horses, so it’s alright that she couldn’t come with them to Storm’s End. She would hate all the travel, anyways. 

He still misses her, though, especially with the shadow of Storm’s End’s massive drum tower passing over them as their small party approaches the gates. 

One of the guards on the walls hails them, but doesn’t question their purpose here; they’ve been expected for days, Gareth knows. 

“Remember your courtesies,” Father tells him seriously, as the gates begin to rumble open. “Look Lord Steffon in the eye, and don’t slouch. And never turn your back on his lady mother, she’s still a princess.”

They pass through the curtain wall, which is so thick that it seems to take forever to come out on the other side of the gate house, but then they’re in the yard, and suddenly the storm seems to have stopped. Gareth is confused, wondering if he just went deaf in one ear. He can still distantly hear the wind, and feel the occasional prickle of rain, but it’s nothing like the slog that it was just getting inside. The wind can’t seem to touch the interior of the keep, like a magic charm. 

Everywhere he turns is grey, or dampened yellow and black banners. He easily picks out the stables, and the kitchens, with servants scurrying in and out like mice, but everything else must be contained to the giant tower above them. It makes Amberly’s tower look like a toy. 

“ROGERS!” someone roars, their voice easily piercing the muffled din of the keep. 

Gareth jumps a little in the saddle, even as he scrambles down. A guard is helping Mother out of the wheelhouse; she has Lucas on her hip, his face buried in her shoulder, and is holding Flora’s hand. Julian trails after her, scowling, though he has enough sense to wipe the sulky look off his face when Father glances over him. 

A big man comes striding out from the drum tower, followed by several other men in Baratheon colors. He looks around the same age as Mother and Father, maybe a little younger; his hair is jet black, not dark brown like Gareth’s, save for a premature streak of silver, and he has wild, wind-swept curls that he sweeps out of his face with an irritated swipe of a massive hand. 

He’s big, easily a head taller than Ser Raymond, who is tall himself, and he towers over Father, who is of middling height. 

He dresses very expensively, Gareth can tell immediately, knowing from his own family’s taste. His dark blue-green doublet is embroidered with golden stags, though his black velvet cloak is pinned in a similar style to Father’s, fasted on his right shoulder with an emerald-studded pin in the shape of a turtle, falling across his chest as well as his back. 

“There he is,” he says jovially; up close his face is hard but unlined, his beard neatly groomed, like Father’s. It’s unclear who he’s talking to until he crouches down and takes Gareth’s hand, which suddenly seems tiny, in his own, shaking it hard enough that Gareth feels like his arm might be torn off. “The little Rogers! Strapping boy, Hal! How old are you, lad, ten?”

“Nearly nine,” Gareth says, feeling he has to speak up a little or never be heard. 

“Nearly nine! Ah, you’re big for your age, like my Robert!” He releases Gareth’s now aching hand and grins; his teeth are straight and very white. 

Father inclines his head, though he seems pleased with this greeting, like he’s trying to hide a smile. “Gareth, this is Lord Steffon Baratheon. Give him your thanks.”

Gareth swallows and bows his head, almost bows his whole body. “Thank you for bringing me into your household, Lord Steffon. You honor me.” He’s pleased he remembered all of that. 

“Polite, too!” Lord Steffon snorts, and pats him on the shoulder, nearly causing Gareth to stumble. “There’s a good boy. Now, let’s get you in and out of those wet clothes- can’t have my ward catching a chill his first night here! Oh- Lady Branda!” 

He takes up Mother’s hand; she smiles what Father calls her Stark smile, which always makes Gareth giggle; it’s cool and reserved, and doesn’t quite fit on her warm, round face, though it always fits her eyes, that piercing grey. Lord Steffon’s eyes aren’t grey, or brown, like Gareth’s own, but a dark, dark blue that might even be a little purple. That must be the Targaryen in him. 

“Thank you, my lord,” Mother says. “I know you will treat my son as if he were your own.”

“Of course! How could I pass it up- a Starkling for each son,” Lord Steffon chuckles. 

Father doesn’t look thrilled that Gareth’s being referred to as a Stark, and not a Rogers, and Ser Raymond smirks, but then they’re moving inside; when Lord Steffon sees Julian pouting, he sweeps him up in his arms and sits him on his shoulders. Gareth grins up at his stunned brother, who can do nothing but clutch Lord Steffon’s hair and duck to avoid hitting his head on doorframes. 

Flora’s eyes are wide grey, drinking everything in as they enter the keep proper, while Lucas is still hiding his face, like the baby that he is. 

Storm’s End’s steward is an Estermont with scraggly white hair and a withered face that makes him look like a tufty turtle. He says that Gareth’s bedchamber will be on the third floor of the tower, because any lower than that, and all you see when you look out your window are grey walls and a sliver of sky. He also says that on a clear day, not like this one, there’ll be no chance of ever sleeping in, because the rising sun lights up the sea like fire, and the glare is so bright you can see it even when you close your eyes. 

Gareth is no stranger to the sea; Father taught him how to swim when he was just a toddler, in the shallows, but he has been lectured up and down for the past few months about how much more dangerous the sea is in Shipbreaker’s Bay, and how he is never to go swimming when the water is rough or choppy, or unaccompanied. He is especially not even to go sailing unless he has permission from Lord Baratheon himself, nor is he to play in the tide pools and caves without an escort.

“Get yourself drowned, and I’ll suck the seawater out of you and thrash you senseless,” his mother has promised him, more than once. 

His new room here is much larger than his room at Amberly, but it feels strange; the bed seems more fit for a giant than a little boy, and it smells different, briny, almost, not the comforting scents of home. The bed linens are fresh and new but he misses the ones on his old bed, even if they were permanently stained from the time he was sick to his stomach when he was six. 

After he’s changed he retreats to the guest rooms his family has taken up residence in instead, bouncing lightly on the big bed (are all the beds here so huge?) after being changed into dry clothes. They’re more formal than he would usually wear about, and are strictly Rogers colors, black trimmed with silver. Mother says he’s lucky he takes after his tanner father in coloring, else he’d look like a little ghost in them. Flora is paler, like her, though she at least freckles. 

“Is Winterfell as big as Storm’s End?” he asks her, watching as her maid Nan arranges her hair. Usually she wears it in a short braid down her back, because it isn’t very long, only just past her shoulders, or in a braided bun pinned up with a comb, but because there is a feast tonight, she is wearing it in a more proper Stormlands fashion, tucked up under a black silk cap corded with silver, which match her long earrings. 

“Winterfell is bigger,” she answers immediately, wincing as Nan adds another pin to hold the cap securely in place over her netted hair. “Much more sprawling, you know. You should know, from all my stories, Gare! This is just a very big tower, enclosed by high walls. Winterfell has towers at every corner.”

“I think it’s ugly,” Flora proclaims. She is kneeling on the window seat, face pressed up against the glass, fogging it with her breath. She’s wrinkling the skirt of her pearlescent grey dress, but Mother doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s all just grey rocks. There’s not even a godswood.”

“There is too,” Julian says, riled. Gareth doesn’t really care what Flora says because she’s only five and just a baby, but Julian always has to correct everyone. “There is, Father told me about it. It’s behind the stables.”

“It’s very small,” Mother says. “But you should still visit, Gareth. And the sept,” she adds, after a moment, almost guiltily. 

Septa Dybele is not here but she would probably be frowning if she was. Gareth was anointed with the seven sacred oils and named in a sept, but Father has never minded Mother to take him and his siblings to pray before the heart tree as well. Septa Dybele and Septon Mandor are never very pleased to hear of it, but they don’t dare say a word against it, because Mother is a Stark, not just any northwoman. 

“I will,” he says, though Gareth has never been very good at praying. Praying in the godswood is even worse. A sept is so boring you have no choice but to stare at the statues, which at least are usually interesting to look at. Praying in a godswood is just sitting in front of a tree. A tree with a face, to be sure, but staring at it for too long unnerves Gareth, or he gets distracted by the wind in the leaves, or animals scurrying around, or clouds floating overhead. 

“Winterfell has a proper godswood,” Julian says. “Three acres, right Mother?”

Nan has finished with Mother’s hair; she stands up and ruffles Julian’s hair fondly. He wrinkles up his nose, but doesn’t protest. Gareth thinks he and his brother look quite a bit alike, only Julian is much smaller than him, so that people always think they are more than a year apart. Stannis, who is supposed to be his friend, is a year younger than his own brother, Robert. 

Gareth wonders if Stannis is anything like Julian. He likes Julian, except when he’s complaining about something. Or shouting. Or hiding. He’s really good at hide-and-seek, Gareth can never find him in time, unless Flora rats him out. Julian says she was a born snitch. 

“That it does,” Mother says, “but we are not at Winterfell, we’re at Storm’s End, and we have to go down to dinner. So let’s all be polite,” she arches an eyebrow as Flora sighs with a big gust, slipping down from the window seat. Lucas is now in Nan’s arms, whining about being left up in the nursery. “And eat everything on our plate, and not spill anything,” Mother continues, “or make faces, or kick under the table. Alright?”

She kisses Lucas on the cheek, and picks some dried spittle off his chin. “Gareth, you go down ahead with your father. This is your feast.”

Julian mumbles something under his breath. He’s always doing that. Gareth gives him an elbow, then dodges the smack his brother tries to land on him, hurrying ahead, hiding the smile on his face. 

The feasting hall here must be twice as big as the one at home, and is located near the very top of the tower. The sun has come out just in time to set, and the yellow tint of the windows means everything in the rooms looks enameled in gold, even the antlers carved into the backs of all the high-backed chairs. The walls are covered in hunting tapestries, though some are of the sea, and one shows an island, which must be Estermont, where Lady Cassana is from. 

Father once told Mother that Lord Steffon wed for love, not ‘for sense’, whatever that means, but Gareth is mostly sure it means that the Estermonts are quite poor, for ancient lords. 

When Lady Cassana comes in with her ladies, though, she does not look very poor. Like her husband, she is a tall, big-boned woman; with long limbs and sun-tanned skin. Her hair is chestnut brown, not black like her husband’s, and she wears it coiffed up in a tumble of a braid pinned behind her head, held back by a yellow ribbon studded with emeralds. Her gown is all green and gold, too, and she kisses Lord Steffon sweetly on the cheek as he escorts her to her seat, like they were very young and just betrothed. 

Gareth looks around for Stannis, then realizes he missed him entirely. Stannis sits in between his mother and father; he looks tall for his age, like Gareth, but his parents still seem to dwarf him, or maybe it’s because of how he hunches in his shoulders when he sits. His expression is polite enough, but his eyes are very wary; Gareth recognizes the look because he’s seen it on Julian a thousand times. 

Stannis looks a good deal like his father, though his hair does not have much of a curl to it, and his eyes are a lighter shade of blue. His forehead seems wide, but that might just be because his hair is cropped almost uncomfortably short, almost bristly, and his eyebrows are very thick. His nose is a little too big for his face; Gareth knows what that feels like; and he’s very skinny, like Julian, like a stick, without the pudginess or round cheeks most highborn boys his age might have. 

Gareth says hello to him, and tells him he is very happy to be his foster brother, and Stannis says he is very happy to have him, but it’s mostly the grown-ups talking. Gareth sits in between his father and Ser Raymond, across from Stannis, while Mother sits beside Lady Rhaelle, the princess, who Gareth has to stand up again to be introduced to when she belatedly arrives for her dinner. He’d pictured an old crone of a woman with purple eyes and silver hair, but Princess Rhaelle doesn’t look very old, though she doesn’t look very healthy, either. 

She’s not very tall and has a round face, but she looks like someone who recently lost a lot of weight because they got very sick or hurt, and it seems like it hurts her to walk, and her voice is slightly strained and hoarse. Her laugh is loud, though, and Gareth sees where her son gets it from. 

He thought she might be all in crimson and black like a proper Targaryen, but she’s wearing a plum colored gown instead, and her hair, which is black threaded with white, is hidden under a jeweled diadem full of amethysts and rubies. It reminds him of a fruit basket. 

That might just be the food, though; while the grownups talk and laugh and drink, there’s nothing for Gareth to do but eat. Once or twice he tries to say something to Stannis, even just to ask him what he did today, or if he likes horses and dogs, but Stannis either can’t hear him over the chatter and clink of dishes, or doesn’t want to talk; he stares resolutely at his plate, and eats like he’s being forced to, with quick bites and chews and swallows. 

Gareth has always been loyal to Amberly’s cook, Raff, but he has to admit the Baratheons like to eat, and the food here is very, very good. It’s not much different from what they would serve at home, either; the first course is salad and chick pea bread, followed by smoked pork, which is served cold, and a mushroom soup, which Gareth likes very much, because he likes mushrooms a lot. 

Only the ones which won’t kill you, though. One of the kitchen girls, Carrots, she showed him which mushrooms were poisonous once, and said witches used them in brews to kill maidens and steal their beauty, or give you foul dreams. To Gareth’s disappointment, the bad ones were mostly all the colorful, pretty ones. 

A nettle pie, too, which Stannis seems to like very much, since he no longer looks like he’s just eating to clear his plate, and might really enjoy it, from the way his chewing slows. 

Next lamb, which Gareth used to love until he saw the lamb penned up for slaughter before supper once, so he tries some of the goat meat instead, because a goat tried to kick him when he was five, and he feels not as bad about eating them. There’s also chicken drenched in beer, which Gareth can smell from across the table, and mussels, one of which Flora sends flying when she tries to crack it open, so Ser Harbert, who is Lord Steffon’s uncle, opens it for her with his knife, patting her on the head. 

Cheeses, too, a lot of them, some hard and some creamy to dip bread into, and wine, though Gareth is only allowed a small cup, barely more than a mouthful. Lord Steffon offers Stannis some, than laughs and squeezes his son’s shoulder when he refuses; Stannis goes bright red and lowers his gaze back to his plate, biting his lip so hard it seems to vanish. 

Gareth is fidgeting by then, feeling his legs going numb; he hasn’t sat through a feast since the high summer festivities, and they went down to the beach for that and he didn’t have to sit for very long, he was allowed to get up and run around with the other children after they cut the pies and cakes. He looks at Julian, suddenly realizing he won’t have his brother to run around with anymore. Julian looks just as bored as him, so Gareth sticks his tongue out at him. Julian pulls a face back, and they continue like that until the desserts are brought out. 

When Gareth looks away, he realizes Stannis was watching them. He doesn’t look angry, just confused, like he never teased his brother at the dinner table before. 

There’s no almond cake or cookies tonight, to his disappointment, but there is walnut and cinnamon pastry, drizzled with honey, and spicebread, which Gareth loves, and a custard and grape puddings. Gareth tries a little of everything until Father gives him the ‘enough’ look, and then just spoons pudding into his mouth, only slurping it once, and very quietly, so he won’t be scolded. Stannis doesn’t seem to like sweets much; he only tries the custard, and doesn’t finish it until Princess Rhaelle tells him he should put some meat on his bones. 

“Do you like pie instead?” Gareth asks him. “Apple pie is the best.”

“No,” says Julian. “Raspberries are better.”

“You’re a raspberry,” Gareth pokes him with his foot under the table. Julian kicks him back. Gareth grimaces in pain but doesn’t cry out; you can’t snitch playing the under-the-table game. 

“I like lemons,” Stannis ventures; it’s the first thing he’s said aloud in over an hour. 

“You’re a lemon,” Flora giggles; she’s just trying to copy Gareth and didn’t mean anything bad, but Stannis scowls at her until her expression crumples. 

“Don’t scare her, she’s just a baby,” Julian snaps at him. 

“I’m not a baby!” Flora whirls from distress to anger in moments, and then there’s a big fuss until Mother says, in a forcibly calm voice, that if they don’t settle down they’ll all go straight up to bed without any goodnight or stories at all. 

“Sorry,” Stannis says, when she looks away, though it sounds like he really didn’t want to say it, and is just worried Flora will really cry and get him in trouble. Gareth is used to that, at least. Flora cries the biggest, fakest tears ever, like she’s in a mummer’s show. But Father always believes her. 

“You’re a grape,” Julian whispers loudly to her. 

They all start laughing at that; Gareth, Julian, and Flora, while Stannis again looks on, confused, as if they’d started speaking in Valyrian. 

“You’re lucky you haven’t got a sister,” Gareth tells him, to try to make him laugh too. “They smell.”

“You smell like goose poop,” Flora tells him, wriggling her ears; she can do that. 

“No,” Julian says, “he smells like horse poop.”

“At least I got to ride a horse here, baby head,” Gareth snaps, and Julian draws himself up in indignation. 

“My horse is called Durrandon,” Stannis says. That, at least, gets everyone’s attention. 

“My horse doesn’t have a name,” Gareth says, feeling a bit silly now for not thinking of one. He just calls him ‘my horse’ or ‘the chestnut’ or ‘boy’. “But our dogs at home have names.”

“We have two types of dogs,” Julian interjects, yet again. “The hunting dogs and the lapdogs. Our lapdogs are Orys and Argy.”

“You weren’t supposed to tell him that,” Flora says in a sing-song tone. 

Gareth flushes a little, for Julian’s sake, though Stannis doesn’t seem to get it. 

“Why not?” His brow furrows. 

“Because they’re named after Orys and Argella, and Father thought you might take ‘fence,” Gareth explains. “In case it was disrespectful.”

“Oh,” Stannis looks as though he’s pondering whether or not he feels disrespected, and finishes his custard, furtively licking the spoon clean with quick jabs of his tongue. 

“You can come see my horse. Father got him from Dorne,” Stannis tells Gareth, as the grownups begin to stand, leaving the remains of the feast rotting on the table. “But only if you promise to be nice and quiet. Last time he was here my brother Robert scared him, and he kicked a stable boy.” Stannis’ thin lips press together over his teeth. “Robert thought it was funny.”

“I can be quiet,” Gareth says. He’s been in and out of stables his entire life and isn’t expecting to be impressed, but he knows this is what he’s supposed to do, spend time with Stannis, because they’re going to be foster brothers now. 

Julian wants to come with them, but Father won’t let him, so Gareth leaves him behind sulking, feeling daring and grownup, even if his parents know exactly where he’ll be, as he follows Stannis out of the hall and down, down, down the stairwell that leads all the way to the base of the tower. By the time they reach the ground level, his legs are burning; maybe that’s why Stannis is so skinny, if he runs up and down that every day. 

“Robert’s a ward with my cousin Eddard,” he tells Stannis, as they make their way outside. 

The stars are visible overhead, but Gareth doesn’t have time to check if they’re the same ones that can be seen over Amberly. Beyond the castle’s high walls, he can hear the muffled roar of the wind and sea, crashing against the rocks below. He can see the sea from his room at Amberly, but not hear it. At night all he usually hears are the sounds of the godswood, or the ravens of the rookery. 

“I know,” Stannis says sharply. “Robert writes letters once a month, and all he ever talks about is your cousin.” He sounds almost reproachful, as if he expects Gareth to apologize. Gareth wonders if he’s upset that he didn’t get to go to the Vale as well. 

“I’ve never met him,” Gareth confesses. “I’ve only met my grandmother and grandfather, but when they came to visit I was only five.” He remembers them very vaguely; his grandmother had a lined face, and was short and stocky like mother, and his grandfather’s head was shaved and he had a rusty voice, all hinges creaking. 

The North is very far from here, and Mother has not been back to Winterfell since she married Father. That makes her very sad sometimes; she says she misses the North the most in the summer time. She says Julian might foster there, though, in a few years, if her cousin Rickard agrees. 

“I’ve some cousins,” Stannis admits, sounding a little mollified that Gareth doesn’t know Eddard Stark at all, “but they all live on Estermont. And my uncle Harbert never had any children.”

“Cousins can be mean,” Gareth says. “My cousin Ronald Connington pushes me around.”

Stannis scowls, as if Ronald were there right now, smirking at them from the lantern light around the quiet stables. “Then someone should push him back.”

For the first time, he sounds less like an old man and more like an ordinary boy, Gareth thinks. He grins. “You could. You’re a Baratheon. He’s just a Connington. He likes to tease me and say that I’m just a Rogers, and the Conningtons are a greater house, but the Baratheons are the greatest house in the whole Stormlands.”

“Yes,” says Stannis, not bragging, just acknowledging it as true. Gareth likes that about him; he might be grumpy and quick to take offense, but he’s not arrogant or cocky. 

He leads Gareth past a dozing groom, all the way to one of the stalls near the back, where an inquisitive, sleek black face pushes its head over the door. Gareth has seen many horses before, but never a Dornish sand steed. 

“He’s too small to be a warhorse,” Stannis says. “Or to joust with in a proper tourney. But Father says he’s the fastest horse. Maybe in all of Westeros.”

Gareth could believe it; Durrandon is a beautiful horse, with dark, inquisitive eyes and a gleaming mane. His flank looks like darkly rippling water, like you could plunge your hand into it. He leans up and pats the horse on the nose; Durrandon exhales fiercely, and whinnies, loud and shrill. Gareth chuckles, and looks at Stannis, who is watching him warily, as if waiting for Gareth to say something mean, or make fun of him. But how could you poke fun at a horse like this?

“He’s beautiful,” Gareth says. “Like a horse from a story.”

“That’s what Princess Gran said,” Stannis nods his head, then flushes. “I mean- my grandmother. The Princess Rhaelle. She tells me stories. Sometimes. She’s been sick.”

“What kind of stories?” Gareth loves stories; all his siblings do. Mother has the best stories, stories of the North, or of her father’s adventures, or of her mother’s girlhood up in the mountains. She has stories with knights and princesses, stories with wildlings and giants, stories with Children of the Forest and warg kings and Others.

“About the Targaryens,” Stannis shifts from one foot to another. “She says her brother Daeron had a horse like this.”

Gareth thinks back to his history lessons, but the trouble is that he’s not very good with those. He can read and write alright, but Maester Blaise is always sighing when he stumbles over the dates and names. He just gets nervous when he has to recite, is all. If they’ve written it down for him, then he’s alright. “Who’s that?”

“Prince Daeron, the third son of King Aegon and Queen Betha,” Stannis says, impatient. “He died during the Rebellion of the Rat and the Hawk and the Pig.”

Gareth does know that is. “When the commons rebelled,” he says, and smiles because he remembered. “But King Aegon and Ser Duncan the Tall slew the rebels.”

“Maester Cressen says it might have been all paid for by Blackfyres,” Stannis informs him. 

Gareth could believe that. Everyone says the Blackfyres are all dead now, at least all the men, but they weren’t all dead then. His uncle Osric fought the Blackfyres in the last war, before he was born, and so did his grandfather. Father didn’t fight, though, he had to stay home and take care of Amberly. 

Gareth wishes he had gone to fight, because everyone else’s father has war stories, it seems like, and his father has none. But maybe there will be another war, and then he and Father can fight in it together. That would be just like one of Mother’s tales. 

“Can I see your godswood?” he asks, impulsively.

Stannis stares at him for a moment, then nods. He leads Gareth out of the stables, and into what Gareth first takes for the kitchen gardens, before he realizes, judging by the fancy gate and high walls, that this is in fact the castle godswood. It is smaller than Amberly’s, much smaller. At least that’s something he can brag about. His home has a bigger godswood. There is a weirwood tree, though.

“You don’t worship the Seven?” Stannis frowns, as he shuts the gate behind them.

“I do,” Gareth says, defensively. “Only I’m allowed to pray here, too. My mother is of the old gods. But I’m Faithful.”

Stannis looks doubtful. “How can you pray to two different sets of gods?”

Gareth doesn’t even think. “I pray to them about different things.” He’s not lying; it’s true, he does. He prays to the Seven for certain things to happen, or for help with something specific, or when he wants to say something to them. He prays to the old gods when he’s anxious or scared and not sure why. He prays to the Seven to give him strength, through the Warrior, and to the old gods to be his strength. That sounds like the same thing, but it’s not. 

Stannis wrinkles his nose, but doesn’t argue as they approach the tree. 

Gareth reaches up and strokes some red leaves. “Hello,” he greets the weirwood, wishing the solemn face would smile back at him. He used to pretend the expressions changed, when he was little. 

Stannis shifts away, uncomfortable, but Gareth didn’t really come here to pray. “What games do you like?” he asks Stannis instead. “Do you like come-into-my-castle?” 

“No,” Stannis scowls. “Robert always cheats and everyone just lets him.”

“You don’t like any games?” Gareth snorts, and then gives him a little push. “Tag.” He doesn’t feel that stuffed anymore from dinner, and he wants to run around before bed. 

Stannis doesn’t come after him, though, just looks annoyed. “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t just start playing a game, you have to tell me the rules first!”

“It’s just tag,” Gareth says, blinking. 

“No, because if we don’t do the same rules, you could cheat!” Stannis seems to take this very seriously; his face is all scrunched up in upset. 

Gareth flares with impatience. “I’m not a cheater like your brother!”

“Then we have to say the rules!”

He pushes Stannis again. “Tag!” And runs. “That’s the rules!”

“THEY ARE NOT!” Stannis shouts after him, but gives chase. He’s a faster runner than Gareth expected, and gaining on him quickly. Gareth leaps over a log, but loses his footing in a pile of dead leaves, and slips on the mossy earth. 

Stannis grabs him by the arm. “Tag! Now you have to wait and say the rules-,”

“Tag!” Gareth tackles him into the leaf pile, the way he would Julian, but Stannis seems to think he really wants to fight, not just play, and pushes him back, yelling in anger. 

Gareth pins him the way Father taught him, then puts him in a headlock, snickering when he tires to butt him in the stomach. “No. You’re tagged.” He says smugly. 

Stannis digs his nails into his wrist, and Gareth lets go with a yelp, then pushes him over. “That’s! Not! How! You! Play!” Stannis enunciates furiously, blue eyes blazing in the moonlight. 

Gareth stares up at him. “S’how I play.”

“Well, you’re wrong!” Stannis is panting, his hands clenched at his sides. “And- and you have to play how I say, because you’re the ward, and I’m the host!”

Gareth looks at him; Stannis seems to calm a little, and his shoulders hunch, as if he’s embarrassed by his outburst. But Gareth just starts to shake with laughter; he looked so silly, growling like that, and throws some leaves at him. Stannis bats most away, but a few catch at his clothes. As he tries to swipe them off, Gareth laughs some more, and then dumps some on his own head. Stannis seems to realize he’s laughing at the both of them, not just him, and relaxes slightly. 

“You look stupid,” he says, as Gareth lies down on his back, determined to bury himself in leaves. “This isn’t even tag anymore.”

“I don’t care,” Gareth says happily. He likes the smell of leaves, and he can pretend they’re red weirwood armor. “It’s fun.”

After a few moments, Stannis crouches down to join him, and maybe even smiles, in a flash of moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes:
> 
> 1\. So like I said there's going to be a lot of time skips in this fic, though they will down when we get closer to the 280s. This chapter takes place about five years after the last one. 
> 
> 2\. Ordinarily a Rogers would never be warding with the Baratheons; Gareth gets special attention due to his mother's high status, which sometimes irks Hal, not because he resents his wife but because it's not easy to constantly hear people praising your children's maternal line over their paternal. Robert is off in the Vale with Ned; Gareth could potentially have gone there, but his parents wanted him close.
> 
> 3\. I didn't want to just write Steffon as older Robert or older Stannis, so I try to give him a distinct personality of his own in this fic. I actually see him being a bit like Renly (without the whole trying to take the throne out from under his brother thing) but in terms of charisma and having this reputation as someone who is very well liked and generous and known to be jovial. That said Steffon is sharper than he lets on and plays the role of the merry lord for good reason, because it usually lends to people underestimating him politically by dismissing him. 
> 
> 4\. Rhaelle Targaryen is still alive at this time, but her health is fading, unfortunately, and she was pretty traumatized by the loss of nearly her entire family at Summerhall a little over a decade earlier. But she does have a very close relationship with Stannis, so that's nice. 
> 
> 5\. Gareth is someone who loves his family a lot and has a very close relationship with his younger siblings; I get kind of tired of so many shitty sibling relations in ASOIAF fics, so I wanted the Rogers kids to more or less get along. Gareth is a very good-natured kid and a loving older brother, even when he gets into spats with his brothers and sister. 
> 
> 6\. My motivation for sending Gareth to Storm's End is mostly to explore the ramifications of a young Stannis actually having a close friend who doesn't care about his brother or how Stannis compares to him, and what that might do for Stannis' self esteem and general perspective on life. Gareth is (clearly) not someone who is very judgmental, takes offense easily or who holds grudges, so he's a good fit.
> 
> 7\. Next chapter we'll be visiting Winterfell briefly.


	5. Branda III

275 AC - WINTERFELL

Branda wakes disoriented, momentarily baffled by the unfamiliar bedchamber, the crisp chill in the air emanating through a slightly opened window, and the strange smells and sounds that tell her this is not home. 

But it is home. She rubs at her face, rolling over blearily and colliding with Hal, who grunts in his sleep. It’s been fourteen years since she woke up at Winterfell, so she thinks a little confusion is warranted, even if it makes her feel a bit sheepish. Of course she is home. It’s just that she has two homes now; the one where she spent her childhood, and the one where she made her life as a wife and mother. 

Fourteen years is a long time, though. It doesn’t feel that long. The Winterfell she rode into yesterday seemed unchanged from the one she rode out of as a maiden on her way south for her wedding. The same high grey walls were still standing. The hot springs bubbled in a dozen small pools in the many, many courtyards. The godswood was waking up from a long winter’s sleep, sprouting anew. The winter town outside the keep was still bustling, more and more villagers leaving to return to their holdfasts to begin planting crops. 

And yesterday Branda rumbled through the gates in a small wheelhouse, feeling half a stranger and half a spectacle, as crowds gathered and the household whispered amongst itself to see what strange southron fashions and habits she might have picked up. She could not help but feel they judged her for the wheelhouse, though it’s not as if they are unheard of in the north, only the roads besides the Kingsroad are so rough it would take you ages to get anywhere except down to Barrowton or White Harbor in one. 

If her children were older, they could have all come in on horseback, with just the baggage train behind them, the way she rode into Amberly. But they are not; that’s the trouble with having lots of children. One starts to toddle, and you’ve got another in your belly. And she is grateful; Branda has been with child six times now, and only lost the one. She could be like the poor queen, who seems beset with a new miscarriage or stillbirth every year. 

Pregnancies have always been easy enough on Branda, besides some bothersome pains and swelling. Her longest labor was with Lucas, and even then, he made himself known after half a day. Not like her sister, who was laid up for two days with bloody little Brandon, her eldest. Though Lyarra seems done with her birthing for now; her youngest boy Benjen is seven years old, and as far as Branda knows, her sister hasn’t expected another child since him. But she could be wrong. After all, until yesterday, she had not seen Lyarra in fourteen years. 

It didn’t feel that long, when she stepped down from the wheelhouse with Myra on her hip, holding Lucas’ small hand, and laid eyes on Lyarra. Branda feels the years have been kinder to the younger sister; Lyarra stands as tall and willowy after four children as she did before them, and her face is still smooth and unmarred by time, aside from the beginning of some smile lines around her eyes and mouth. Her hair was the same fine brown it had always been, hanging in a neat leather-bound plait down her back, and when she spoke, she sounded just as she had the last time Branda heard her voice, when she left Amberly some four months after her and Hal’s wedding. 

They’d embraced like girls, the children standing agape at their mothers tossing all dignity and decorum inside to squeal and squeeze each other and kiss, and Hal and Rickard had shook hands- time has not been so easy on her cousin, Branda has bemusedly noted. He doesn’t look quite an old man yet, but it would seem wardenship does age a man; there are gray strands in his dark brown hair and beard (a beard he never could have grown when she last saw him, when he was little more than a boy), and his skin was weathered and roughened by the past winters. 

Still, he was not the sometimes haughty youth she remembered, either, though he was no more light-hearted than he’d ever been; Rickard has never been one for small talk and pleasantries, not unless he wants something, which is, depending on who you ask, either refreshingly charming, or transparently demanding. But they do seem happy, he and her sister. 

Perhaps not in the same way as when they were betrothed, when all they could talk about were their plans for their wedding and what they would name their children, but still content now, not embittered or wearied of each other’s company, which was a relief to her. She could not stand to think of Lyarra unhappy here, no more than Lyarra could stand to think of her miserable in the south. 

Especially with- well, Father finally found a war he couldn’t win this past winter, only he wasn’t felled by an axe or sword, and not on some distant shore or some grimy alleyway, but in his own bed, sweating out a chill. He did get his spiteful wish, and outlived Edwyle Stark by nearly a decade, but he did not die with a weapon in hand or bearing down on some enemy. 

He did leave their mother a widow, but not for long. Arya Flint followed him some months later, not from a chill but a bad fall that broke a hip as she hurried down the stairs. Fifty was younger than Branda would have preferred. She wanted Mother to live to see her grandchildren one last time. But better she go quickly, and not suffer for too long, then eke out a few more years bed-bound and helpless, Branda thinks. Her mother was a mountain Flint. They have never been ones for sitting still. 

“I think we have to get up,” Hal murmurs to her, breaking her out of her thoughts. She can hear footsteps in the hall and on the stairs; floorboards creak above them. The guest house was nothing more than another place to play, when Branda was a girl, but now it is where she finds herself. A guest. That feels strange, very strange. How can she be a guest here? Part of her never left. 

“We do,” she admits, kissing him on the cheek, and then scoffing, “You need to shave, is what you needs do, Hal.”

He cracks open one dark eyes and smiles at her, brushing her fingers across his jaw. “What, you wouldn’t rather I grow a proper northman’s shaggy beard?”

“I like your beard,” she protests, then adds, “as it is. Gods, the only men around Winterfell with great shaggy beards these days are clansmen come down from the mountains.” 

It feels strange, all the elders (though they were never that old, she just remembers them that way, with a child’s eyes) gone and buried beneath them, down in the dark of the crypts. Uncle Edwyle and Aunt Marna, Grandmother Melantha… Her mother’s siblings are still alive, Torghen Flint and Jonelle Mormont, but they are off with their own people now, recovering from the winter, seeding the muddy ground and hoping no lashing rains and winds come to wash the crops away. 

“And I could never pass for a clansmen,” he yawns, sitting up and pushing back the furs. “Too dark and swarthy by far.”

“I’ve seen some dark Harclays,” she mutters, and surprises herself with a small shiver from the cold spring air, prickling at her skin despite the heated walls. Just let Rickard see her shiver in his presence, she’ll never hear the end of it. Thin-skinned Branda’s lost her tough hide in the south, must be all those peppers and olives in her blood. Ah well, there’s worse things to have running through your veins, she’s sure of it. 

She hears a distant, high-pitched shriek, and the sound of pattering feet. 

“They’re up,” Branda judges. 

“I tell you now,” Hal says, “If Robert puts a toe out of line, you’ll have to take him to task, Branda, I mean it. I won’t risk it. The cocky looks the little shit gives me… He knows damn well Lord Rogers wouldn’t dare thrash the heir to Storm’s End.”

“Ah, but Jon Arryn would,” Branda says, patting him on the back. “We’ll threaten to send him a raven if Robbie gets too wild, that should straighten him out. You know the old man would row himself across the Bite if need be.”

Hal laughs and shakes his head, squeezing her hand as they clamber out of bed. 

Truth be told, he has a point. Branda used to think her cousin Jorah was a bother. Well, Robert Baratheon makes him seem mild-mannered. They picked him up at Storm’s End while collecting Gareth and Ned for this visit; initially there were no plans for the boy to accompany them, but he got it into his head that he had to see Winterfell, and Steffon Baratheon has always been indulgent of him. 

Branda had half a mind to ask Stannis if he wanted to come along as well, then thought better of it. One Baratheon boy might be manageable during the arduous travel north. Two, and always at each other’s throats? She has five quarrelsome children of her own to worry about, never mind that. Hal was not pleased, but what could they say? At least Steffon didn’t see fit to pack up his own household and accompany them. That would have stretched their travel out even further. As it stands, they made decent time from Storm’s End to King’s Landing, and thankfully the seas were not as rough as she’d feared on their journey north. 

All the same, she’d forgotten just how long a journey it was. A three weeks’ ride from Amberly to Storm’s End, then another three weeks to King’s Landing. A fortnight and a half at sea up to White Harbor, then another three weeks through the hinterlands to Winterfell. 

She did not spend nearly as much of it in the saddle as her husband and the older children, but she is still nursing Myra, Lucas is just five, Flora caught a terrible cold and kept hacking and sneezing every night, Robert was too excitable and kept wandering off with Gareth, Julian sulked because he felt left out- she is relieved to be here, is all, where at least she doesn’t have to worry about the children being eaten by a hungry shadowcat or carried off by wildlings while they run her ragged. 

It’s well into the morning by the time she’s fed Myra, dressed with Nan’s help, and made her way down into the dining hall, but the guest house has its own small kitchen, only in operation when Winterfell has visitors, and she doubts the food will already be cleared by the time she comes in. She’s right; it looks as if everyone had just sat down, and from Hal’s slightly harried expression, it was clearly a trial just to get them all in their seats. 

Robert and Ned are missing; Branda assumes they either woke at the crack of dawn, unusual as it would be for boys of twelve to voluntarily rouse themselves that early, or slunk off into the great keep instead to break their fast with Rickard and Lyarra and Ned’s siblings. She is betting on the latter. Robert could talk of nothing but of how much he wanted to meet Ned’s brothers all the way to Winterfell, and so it is really for the best that Stannis were not here, else Gareth would have been caught in the middle. 

Stannis is a good lad but prickly as a hedgehog, everyone knows it, and Robert can be sweet when he wants something, but is at best, heedless of the younger brother who so obviously craves his approval, and at worst, a little bully. Not with Branda’s own children, but Branda can spot the occasional pigheaded streak in him from some leagues away. 

It doesn’t alarm her; most children have some kind of innate spite in them, it would seem to her, it’s just that most children have been a little less spoilt and a little more roughed up by their siblings, unlike Robert, who has been the apple of his father’s eye since the day he first drew breath. She can believe Jon Arryn is likely a bit more stern with the boy, but not by that much. 

All the same, there’s a peculiar relief in this one breakfast being just them; she always has to mind what she says, with her nephew or Robert present, though Ned really is a sweet, obedient boy, most of the time. 

Flora is picking at her porridge with an unenthused pout, while Julian is sawing at his link of sausages as if they personally insulted him. 

“Put some sugar in it,” Branda advises her daughter, while she spoons some pudding onto a plate for Myra, who is content to sit curled up beside her, her thumb in her mouth. “And Jules, really, my love, you don’t need to make mince meat out of them-,”

“I like the bacon,” Gareth says, ever the most pleasant of her brood in the morning. 

“I can’t see why,” Hal snorts, “you’ve charred it to the seventh hell and back.”

Gareth shrugs and crunches away. 

“Papa swore,” Lucas informs her, turning those baleful grey eyes of his onto his sire. 

Hal blinks at this betrayal from his youngest son, then heaps some more fried eggs onto Lucas’ plate. “Don’t talk with your mouth open.”

Branda selects an oatcake and some less-charred bacon than what Gareth chose, and fills her cup with some milk, asking, in between sips, what exactly they all mean to do today. 

“Lord Stark tells me he’s taking us on a hunt,” Hal says, sounding a bit wary, as if he’s unsure if he, in fact, might be the prey of choice, as the lone southron lord here. 

“Oh, we can’t,” Flora cries out, dropping her spoon with a rather theatrical clatter into her bowl of porridge. Julian recoils from his seat across from her, muttering threats under his breath. “We can’t go on a hunt, if we kill a white stag it will be seven years’ bad luck!”

Flora has been very firm about the dangerous fates invoked by hunts ever since a small mummer’s company stopped over in Amberly on their way up to Storm’s End. One of their skits was something about a noble white stag slain by a vicious lord, who later went on to attempt to murder his own nephew in his bed and seize his birthright. Fortunately, he was felled by the stag himself, somehow changed into a shining knight all in white. 

There was also a romance thrown in there, though Branda wasn’t really paying close attention, and Julian nodded off in his seat. Flora, however, was riveted, and jumped up and sang along with the brief closing song, which was something about the pure and valiant spirit of Ser Stag. 

“We’re not going to kill a white stag,” Julian informs her, loudly. “And you’re not coming, stu- anyhow, you’re not coming,” he abruptly changes tacks when he sees the look Hal is giving him. “It’s just for the men.”

“You’re not a man,” Flora retorts. “Only Gareth is-,”

“I am?” Gareth seems thrilled by this news, looking up from his meal. 

“Gareth will be a man,” Branda says, “when he comes of age. And both of you will go on the hunt and obey your father and your uncle."

“But I can take my bow, can’t I?” Gareth demands. At twelve he is as tall as some fifteen-year-olds, and near as strong.

“That’s not fair-,” Julian begins to protest.

“What’s not fair, it’s not my fault you have arms like twigs-,”

“Well, if either of you kills a white stag, you’ll be sorry!” Flora interjects. 

“We’re not killing a white stag!” Julian and Gareth snap at the same time. 

Branda glances out the window, seeking a distraction. “Look, it’s snowing,” she says. 

Despite it having been still winter in the Stormlands six months ago, the children all make a run for the window anyways, eager to see a northern spring shower. They still don’t believe her tales of the summer snowstorms that sometimes left three feet of snow and ice on the ground, crystallizing green leaves on the trees and freezing doves and sparrows in their nests. 

“Don’t worry,” she assures Hal, who is demolishing his toast, slathered with preserves. “You’re a much better huntsman than Rickard.”

“I knew that,” he says in between chews, but seems pleased she said it all the same.

They’d have had better luck setting off well before dawn, but Branda can’t really blame Rickard for wanting a chance to escape the keep for the greater part of day. Doubtless he’s not used to it being this busy- or there being so many children present. With Brandon fostering with the Dustins and Ned in the Vale, he only usually has his youngest two scampering about. 

And scamper they do, Branda notes with some relief, as she sees the men off on their hunt. She’d had some concern that she’d arrive her with her own… spirited family to find that her sister and cousin had raised a gaggle of well-behaved, mild-mannered, solemn little ducks. Far from it. 

Brandon is tall (though not as tall as Gareth, she notes with some satisfaction) and broad-shouldered for his age, mounting some fine black stallion, a gift from the Ryswells, doubtless, as he speaks with young Will Dustin and Roger Ryswell. He looks almost identical to his father, with darker brown hair that falls in waves, rather than his brother and mother’s pin-straight locks. His eyes are darker, too, a grey edging towards black, as Rodrik Stark once had. It’s strange, seeing her father’s eyes in a child’s face. Of her own children, only Flora and Lucas have the Stark look, and their eyes are a paler grey, almost blue in some lights, like her own. 

Ned has his head bent towards Robert as the boy tells some dirty jape; she can tell from his lips pressed together that he is trying not to snicker. Gareth is nearby, clearly eavesdropping on this exchange, his reins in hand, while Julian tries to hide his dismay at being left out. Her heart sinks a little for him. When it’s just he and Gareth, the two of them are close as anything, but around other boys, Julian is always… well, he’s a bit prickly, is all, and he’s never been as quick to make friends as easygoing Gareth. 

He’s not shy, though, not like her little Lucas, who doesn’t seem to mind at all that he can’t go with them. Actually, she’s not sure where he’s run off to, but little Benjen is also missing, so it seems a safe bet they’re in the kitchens or godswood, playing. That’s where she would have gone at their age. 

“Hal,” she calls after her husband, as Lyarra sees Rickard off with a kiss, and the hunter’s gate begins to grind open. He turns to her, eyes wide in question, but she just glances briefly at Julian, and he nods in understanding. 

“Jules, come on, front of the party,” he waves their son forward, nudging his small mare into motion. “Your uncle wants to make sure you know your history, if you’re to foster here.”

To his credit, Rickard seems to realize and plays along, smiling faintly at his nephew, who shoots him a wary glance. Branda turns away. She’s been dithering back and forth over whether or not it’s wise to send Julian up here to foster, but it’s too late now. Hal and Rickard have agreed to it, and they’d look foolish and weak-willed to back out of it now. He’s about to turn eleven, she reminds herself sharply. Plenty of boys go off to other households to serve as pages at seven. 

This will do him a world of good, living in a new place, meeting new people. It’s not as if they’re shipping him off to the bloody Wall. He’ll make friends with his cousins; gods know Brandon seems to be home all the time, for someone who’s supposed to be fostering leagues away. And gods willing, Rickard will find a strong match for him here, in time. What would his options be in the Stormlands? 

Gareth is the heir, and while they are doing well enough, there are no lands to spare for Julian to have his own separate household once he’s of age and ready to marry, unless he fancies a little hovel of a tower keep. In the North, by wont of his Stark blood, and his uncle’s favor, he could make more of himself. He can marry an heiress, even one of a minor house, and rule in his own right as a lord. 

Or perhaps he might join the Night’s Watch, as her uncle Errold did. Some in the south might turn up their noses at the idea, but it has always been considered a great honor for a Stark. Julian could rise high in their ranks, become an acclaimed ranger, maybe even Lord Commander. He’s quick and clever when he puts his mind to something and keeps that temper in check, and they say the Watch needs far more men than they currently have. 

Then he vanishes through the gates, and she wants to laugh at the idea. He’s just a child. She should be hoping the hunt goes well enough and no one turns an ankle or loses their saddle. 

“Well,” her sister says briskly, turning back to her. “I’ve needlework to see to, so I think we’d best find our daughters.”

Branda glances around, and realizes Flora is gone, too; only Myra remains to her, holding her hand and staring up at her with a toddler’s wide dark eyes. “Ah,” she says, a bit lamely. “I seem to be losing them, one by one.”

But her sister just laughs, and links her arm with Branda’s, as they always did as girls. “That makes two of us. Benjen’s taken to climbing lately, and Lyanna is always trying to worm her way out of her lessons.”

“Climbing?” Branda has a sudden vision of Lucas dangling off a ledge, then dismisses it. He’s a cautious one, her thirdborn son. Gareth does foolish things because, well, he was just going along with everyone else, and Julian does foolish things because someone goaded him into it, or because he was trying to show off. Lucas… ah, Lucas is a slyer sort. He only breaks the rules if there's something in it for him. 

“He’s stuck to trees, for the time being, after the lecture Rickard gave him a few weeks ago,” Lyarra says. “Besides, half the time I think he does it to get away from his sister. Lya’s a sweet girl, but she’s very…” she trails off, then says, “She reminds me of you.”

Branda scoffs aloud as they enter the godswood, though she trails off before she can come up with a suitable retort. She’d forgotten quite how massive it was; three acres of land, large enough to contain one small castle inside it. She has come to love Amberly’s godswood, truly, and its slender heart tree, but it is small, tiny compared to Winterfell’s, which is far more than a garden, a proper wild wood of its own. 

They pass under the thick canopy, onto one of the many well worn paths, and for a few moments of silence Branda could be a girl of ten again, walking with her sister in peace, listening to the familiar birdcalls and the rustle of squirrels and rabbits and the whispers of the leaves. 

But the small, warm hand in her own is a reminder otherwise, and she’s shocked to see Lyarra looks almost as if she could cry when she murmurs, “I’ve missed you, Branny.”

“Don’t get weepy,” Branda scolds, ever the unruffled elder sister, while Lyarra just shakes her head and gives her arm a vengeful squeeze. 

“I-,” she waits until they’re a little deeper into the wood, the distant sounds of the castle around them vanishing, as if they’d been taken to another realm entirely, a thousand years before, as old as this land underfoot, “I lost a child, a few moons ago,” Lyarra says, in her careful, calm, manner, as if relating any other sort of disappointment. 

Branda stops, lets go of an unbothered Myra to take her younger sister into her arms. Lyarra may be a head taller, but Branda knows her embraces are still strong enough to lift her skinny sister off her feet, though she refrains for now. “I’m so sorry. Was it… how far was it?”

“Not far,” Lyarra says, though she closes her eyes as she embraces Branda back for a moment, before stepping away, regaining her usual dignity and regal countenance. “I… well, I was just taken aback, I suppose, I’d never… I don’t think I’ve ever lost one before, and it’s not that…” she exhales. “If I am done with children, so be it. I’ve no regrets there; I had my boys and I had my girl, and Rickard and I love them well. But to suddenly have our hopes raised… I’d thought, you know, another girl, this time. A sister for Lyanna. I worry about her, sometimes. You and I, we always had each other.”

“Except when we fought,” Branda smiles slightly. 

Lyarra squeezes her hand. “We always made up, sooner or later.”

“That we did,” Branda admits. 

Truth be told, her and Lyarra bickered frequently as little girls, but it was never any more serious than some raised voices and a few broken toys. She can’t recall them ever having any truly brutal screaming matches, or slapping and pulling hair the way other women sometimes speak of their childhoods with sisters. 

Mayhaps it was because they felt they needed to get along for their mother’s sake, because she was always worried about their father, what he’d done or hadn’t done, or mayhaps it was because they were so close in age. And once they’d flowered, most of their old arguments seemed to fall by the wayside, as if they both understood they should savor the time together they had left. 

They’ve reached the hot springs and the heart tree; Branda can smell it in the air, feel the shift in pressure on her skin, the cold bluster of a damp and dewy spring morning falling away in the face of the steam rising like perpetual mist from the springs. Shrouded on the banks are the children; Branda grows concerned when she sees Flora on the ground, then realizes she’s not hurt, just playing some game. 

“I’ll save the princess!” someone is shouting. 

“Never!” another voice screeches back. “She’s mine now, forever!”

“Roar,” says Lucas, sounding bored. 

“What are you-,” Lyarra begins in exasperation, but Branda stills her, then steps forward, grinning.

“Go on,” she waves at the combatants, who nod resolutely and spring back into action. 

“I’m scaling the tower now!” the knight shouts. 

At least, Branda takes Lyanna for a knight, because she is wearing a small padded squire’s half helm swiped from the armory over her head. In lieu of proper armor, she’s tied up her skirts around her knees and is standing, legs spread wide, like a man, wooden training sword gripped between her hands. 

Her face is daubed with mud, presumably to resemble war paint like the clans wear into battle, and her mouth is set in fierce determination as she scrambles atop the mossy stone and takes a swing at the villain.

Benjen admittedly makes for a less than convincing evil-doer, as he’s unable to stop grinning, but if you take it for a maniacal cackle, maybe it’s more appropriate. His costume is far less involved than his older sister’s; he’s tied his long hair back in a ponytail and is wearing a black cloak, which he keeps tripping over as he tries to duel Lyanna on the very small space atop the stone. 

Behind it, Flora is the perfect princess in repose, having either fainted dead away or been enchanted into a cursed sleep. Her brown hair is fanned out around her and she clutches a scraggly handful of wildflowers to her mud-splattered chest, her skirts wrinkled and bearing more than one footprint. Her eyelashes flutter as she emits the occasional (loud) sigh, as if impatient for her rescue to be over with. 

Lucas must be the dragon, because he is holding what looked like a tattered red and gold streamer, waving it around every so often and uttering, rather than growling, his roars and hisses. You’d think dragons might have fallen out of favor as the enemy of choice in most mummer’s plays, but as far as Branda can tell, they remain as popular a villain as ever, she supposes because giants, krakens, and witches simply lack the flair. The Targaryens, at least, usually seem to bear it in good spirits, or you’d think they’d have outlawed it at some point. Thou shall not slay a dragon on thy stage. 

She laughs aloud at the thought, then regrets it, because Benjen goes toppling off the rock and into the shallows of the springs, defeated, at that very moment. 

“Lyanna!” Lyarra snaps, striding forward as her daughter hops nimbly down from the stone and dodges away from her mother, instead jabbing at Lucas with her sword. 

He gives up the fight very easy, for a fire-breathing wyrm, and simply topples over. 

“You got me.”

“You’re supposed to kiss me properly,” Flora whispers in complaint, as Lyanna pecks her on the cheek, then hauls her to her feet gamely, holding her hand aloft in triumph. 

“We won!”

Lyarra is hauling a sputtering Benjen out of the water, and turns around to see Branda struggling to contain her chuckles, while Lyanna smiles innocently and holds out Flora’s flowers to her mother. 

“Thank you, sweetling,” Lyarra takes them in her free hand, the other pulling the sodden black cloak off of a giggling Benjen. As she wrings it out, she says, “Since your aunt and cousin are visiting, I expect we can get through much more needlework than usual this morn. Let’s set aside two hours, instead of just one.”

Lyanna’s triumphant grin is quite quickly replaced by a dismayed scowl. “But Mother-,”

“Run along and wash up,” Lyarra’s tone is not malicious, but it brokers no room for argument. “You too, Ben,” she thumps him on the back, to make sure he’s not coughing up any spring water.

Branda realizes she perhaps should not be smirking like a fool and turns to her own children, though she can’t find anything to actually punish them for. What is she going to say? ‘I forbid you to play with your cousins?’. 

“Flora, your dress,” she sighs. It was one of the pieces she, Nan, Cynthea, and Leona worked tirelessly on over the winter, readying new clothes for the rapidly growing children of the household. The dress is isn’t ruined, by the mud and grass stains stand out starkly against the pale sage green of the skirt, and one of the sleeves is already fraying. 

As a rule, Flora doesn’t put up a fit when coaxed into finery, the way Branda would as a child, but she can be very careless, and Branda knows she has only herself to blame- her daughter gets it from her. Julian, too, they have her more reckless nature, while Lucas is much more careful and cautious, like Hal, and Gareth… well, Gareth tries, at any rate, he’s just forgetful at times. 

“We can wash it out,” Flora doesn’t seem very concerned. 

“We can, but I don’t want to hear any complaints about you having to sit in damp skirts and stockings during your needlework,” Branda warns. 

Meanwhile, Lyanna is being marched off to the armory to put back the helm and wooden sword. Branda watches her go with bemusement; Lyanna looks just like a young Lyarra, only her hair is darker and wavier, and her eyebrows thicker. But Lyarra would have been aghast, at the age of eight, at the idea of not only taking something without permission, but of waving around swords. 

She and Branda played roughly, sometimes, wrestling around in the long grasses of childhood springs and summers, but Lyarra was always the obedient one, frowning in disapproval as Branda tried to coax her into swiping a pie from the kitchens, or sneaking out of bed late at night. 

Then again, is Flora all that much like her mother? Branda loved music as a girl, and still does, to be sure, but not like her daughter. Flora adores mummers and magic tricks and any sort of spectacle. She is liable to break into song at any moment, she dances out of bed in the morning, she is distraught when things don’t go the way they do in ballads of love and adventure. 

When they’re finally all gathered in the ladies’ solar in the great keep, half the morning is gone. Branda can sense Lyarra’s displeasure just from sitting next to her; her sister always liked to be on a set schedule, and was never one for dawdling or distractions when there was work to be done. Unlike Branda, who often dozed off during lessons, or stared obliviously out the window until she got a smack on the knuckles. 

Winterfell generates much more sewing than a small household like Amberly, and while Lyarra, as Lady Stark, is obviously not personally mending every shirt or pair of socks, she is still expected to oversee the maids in doing such, and to tend to her own husband and children’s garments. 

On top of that, there’s the materials to be produced for trade, which Branda knows well, because merchants come up from White Harbor every spring to do business in the winter town, and it’d be quite the scandal if House Stark was suddenly incapable of producing its own cloth to sell. As guests, Lyarra of course will not insist Branda and her daughter and maids lend a hand, but Branda is hardly going to sit there idling away when there’s work to be done.

She finds herself sharing a corner of a quilt, with her sister, niece, and daughter holding the opposite ends. Branda spares the occasional envious glance at Nan, who has been tasked with keeping Myra entertained, the toddler sitting in her lap as she carefully embellishes a brightly colored kerchief for her, waving it around whenever Myra grows restless, and letting her run her fingers over the different threads. 

Lyanna, to Branda’s surprise, is not bad at needlework, though she clearly doesn’t much enjoy it, and she’s left-handed, like her mother, which sometimes makes things more difficult. 

“My Lucas is left-handed,” she tells Lyanna. 

“Lucas doesn’t have to sew, does he?” the girl replies smartly, which just makes Branda chuckle. 

Flora, however, is a lost cause, doing far more chattering than she is sewing, and constantly forgetting her place, or dropping her needle or thimble. Branda scolds her a few times, but can feel her will slipping away, and it’s easier to simply ignore her. 

“I think I made a very good Naerys,” Flora announces at one point, tucking her hair behind her ears self-consciously. Flora is always bemoaning her hair, which she says is dull and boring, nothing like the golden locks or raven tresses of the women in songs. She says much the same of her skinny face, her long nose, her thin lips, her coltish limbs. But now that she is surrounded by Starks, she can hardly complain of having their looks. 

“Well,” Lyanna says, chewing on her lower lip as she sews, “You don’t look much like her.”

Branda doesn’t think it was meanly meant, just honestly, but Flora flares. “Well, you don’t look much like Aemon the Dragonknight!”

“Is that who you were?” Branda asks, huffing in amusement. 

“Lyanna, you should know very well from your lessons that Aemon the Dragonknight did not kill any dragons,” Lyarra sounds like she’s trying to hide a smile. 

“I know that,” Lyanna says crossly, “but it’s more exciting that way. It’s always more exciting if the story has a dragon in it.”

“Lyanna is very fond of stories,” Lyarra tells Branda. “Her and Benjen wear poor Old Nan out begging for them every night. She’s made her father promise to fetch a singer to Winterfell for her next name day.”

“You’ve never had a singer before?” Flora is scandalized. “Even at Amberly, we always have at least one singer a season!”

“We get them after the Baratheons have fattened their purses,” Branda tells Lyarra, “and they’re feeling generous enough to stop over for a week or two in town.”

“Yes, Ned says Robert tells him that Lord Steffon is very fond of minstrels and mummers,” Lyarra says, as the girls launch into explanations and arguments over their favorite stories. “How do you think Gareth likes it there?”

“No complaints from him,” Branda sets her needle down for a moment to crack her knuckles and massage her fingers. “But he’s not the complaining type. Still, it’s a great boon for us, of course, to be honored so. No Rogers has ever fostered with a Great House before.”

Lyarra smiles. “Well, now two will.” She lowers her voice, telling Branda seriously, “I swear, I will love your Julian like my own little boy, Branda.”

“Of course you will,” Branda says, as if it were never in question, though her mother’s heart is relieved all the same. “I know you will. And he is a good boy, truly, he’s just… a bit of a hothead, at times.”

“Well, so was Rickard.” They share a secretive smile, before Lyarra says, “Rickard’s been getting ideas, for Brandon’s match.”

Branda isn’t surprised; Brandon is twelve now, the same age as Gareth, though Hal has always maintained he will not consider any betrothals for their eldest until he is at least sixteen, lest they enter into any agreements that turn ill-favored or regrettable. “Of course he is, he’s always been an impatient one. Who does he think would suit, then?” 

She has tried her best to still keep up with the families of the North, in terms of what son and which daughter and how many and how old, though news of births and deaths always arrives late to Amberly. 

“A southron,” Lyarra says, surprising her. 

“Truly?” Branda wrinkles her brow. “I had not thought it of him.” She wonders. A Blackwood, maybe, like Rickard’s own grandmother, or a Royce? Both are southron houses the Starks have wed into before. No, her money is on a Royce. Ned is fostering in the Vale, after all, he will know their families well by now. That makes sense. 

But looking at her sister’s face, it’s clear it’s not what Lyarra had envisioned. 

“Oh dear,” Branda teases. “Are you worried a little southron temptress will steal your firstborn away, Lyarra?”

Lyanna hoots at the jape, then quiets at her mother’s stern look, though she goes back to whispering with Flora, punctuated by frequent snickers and giggles. 

“Of course not,” Lyarra says, a touch frosty, “I had only… I was more hesitant, than he, when it came to talk of Ned’s fostering.” 

Branda knows how to read between her sister’s lines; she has years of practice there. By that Lyarra means they fought over it, and she lost. Well, no surprise there. The father decides where his children go to ward, not the mother. Hal would not have sent Gareth to Storm’s End if she was utterly opposed, or at least, she hopes he would not have, but her and Hal seldom argue as it is, beyond the odd mundane spat. 

“Ned seems well for it,” she says, instead. “You said he used to be so shy-,”

“No, he is better,” Lyarra says, swiftly. “I see now that it was the right decision, for him to go. He has found a true friend in Robert.”

Branda can’t deny that; she might not be terribly fond of the boy, but it’s clear he loves Ned as his brother, and the feeling seems to be mutual there. 

“He has,” she says. “You should have seen them all the way here, Lyarra. All sorts of private japes and games, those two. I’d never seen him laugh so much in my life, your Ned.” Then again, she’d seldom seen the boy before that, but that’s besides the point. 

“And Brandon should marry very well,” Lyarra continues, as if trying to reason herself into a new opinion. “No, I know that. I only- well, you know. How hard it must have been for you, in the beginning.”

“It was,” Branda says. She won’t deny it. Just because she and Hal quickly took a liking to one another does not mean she did not weep like a babe after her family left, or feel overwhelmed and anxious, surrounded by people she’d only known for a few months, a husband she’d only known for a few months. 

But after several weeks of intense longing for Winterfell and moping about, she’d gradually grown more accustomed to Amberly, and its people, and she’s never looked back, at least, she thinks she hasn’t. 

“It was,” she repeats herself, “but it is hard in any marriage, I think, and so long as both are willing to… to be open to one another, the man and the woman, then I think it can always come to a happy end.”

“As yours did,” Lyarra says, fondly. 

“Well, I hope it’s not the end just yet,” Branda snorts, but smiles. 

Afterwards, when the girls are released from their solar imprisonment to run down and wash for lunch, Branda lingers with Lyarra, folding the quilt together in the empty room. 

“I lost a babe, too,” she says, suddenly, feeling her voice shatter the peaceful silence.

Lyarra glances up at her, startled and wide-eyed. “When?”

“Ah… the first one. The first time,” Branda clarifies, feeling her cheeks heat up, though she’s not sure why. Sometimes it seems like it happened decades ago, other times, just yesterday. “It was… long enough into it to tell the sex. A girl. We’d only been wed less than a year, I’d only just had it confirmed by the maester…”

Lyarra sets the quilt down, and takes Branda’s smaller, plumper hands into her own. “Why didn’t you write us about it, Mother and I?”

“You would have only just gotten back to Winterfell, I could not bear to give you bad news like that, and… I don’t know,” Branda sighs. “I just wanted to forget it. We… we did name her. Arya. For Mother.” Her lower lip trembles slightly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner, that I wasn’t here when she… when Father and her…”

“Don’t cry,” Lyarra says, so of course she does cry, but then her sister is holding her again. “You’re here now,” Lyarra is stroking her back. “You’re here now, and I’m so glad for it. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you, Branda. You… it feels like you never left me, really.”

“Sometimes I wake up and wonder where I am, and forget I ever left home at all,” Branda says waveringly, wiping at her eyes. 

Lyarra kisses her on the cheek. “You were always the brave one. I could never have done it, gone so far away. I was always the scared little girl.”

“No, you were always the wise little girl,” Branda corrects her, giving a tremulous smile. “I was the hellion, Father and I, and Winterfell breathed a sigh of relief when we rode out that day for White Harbor, trust me.”

“Maybe just a little,” Lyarra teases, prompting Branda to give her a playful swat on the arm. 

“Ouch!”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby, Lady Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes:
> 
> 1\. So like I said, lots of time skips in this fic, though they will be slowing as we approach the 280s. 14 years is a very long time to go without seeing your sister, but Winterfell and Amberly are very, very far away and in reality even very wealthy people are not going to travel such a great distance that often, especially women with young children. 
> 
> 2\. People regularly did live to old age in the medieval period, they weren't just dropping dead at age 40, (though maybe not quite so old as some of GRRM's characters), but the realities of medicine during this time also means that something like a broken hip or simple illness in your fifties could certainly kill you. 
> 
> 3\. I do not think Robert met the rest of the Starks for the first time at Harrenhal. We know Ned did visit home, he wasn't exiled to the Vale for years just because he was a ward, so here we see him and Robert joining the Rogers for their visit. The dynamic between Robert and the Rogers is a bit strange, as they are considered quite minor bannermen of his father's, so he tends to kind of... blow off their attempts at discipline or chastisement due to the class difference. 
> 
> 4\. Three of Branda's children (Gareth, Julian, Myra) have their father's look (dark brown hair, broad square face, brown eyes), and the middle two (Florence and Lucas) have more of the traditional Stark look (long narrow face, brown hair, grey eyes). So basically Lucas looks a lot like Ned, and Flora looks a lot like Lyanna. In case the ages are confusing, in 275 AC, Gareth, Robert, and Ned are all about 12, Brandon is 13, Julian is 11, Lyanna and Flora are 8, Benjen is 7, Lucas is 5, and Myra is 2 going on 3. 
> 
> 5\. The plan is for Julian to foster with the Starks, as Rickard is his uncle, and Branda and Hal have hopes he can make a better marriage in the North than he would in the Stormlands, or, failing that, possibly join the Night's Watch. 
> 
> 6\. Part of needlework is obviously making pretty pieces of embroidery to show off your talent, and another part of it is the actual hard work of mending clothes and making new ones. Obviously the Stark women are not going to be doing constant hard labor of being bent over sewing like actual seamstresses, but they are still expected to show some involvement in it and to make sure the household is keeping up with the work load. Additionally, a wife would be expected to tend to her own husband's shirts. 
> 
> 7\. Lyarra and Rickard generally have a loving and happy marriage, but they disagree over their children's futures. Lyarra would prefer her children to marry and remain in the North, whereas Rickard clearly has much grander ambitions involving southron spouses for most of his children. 
> 
> 8\. Next chapter will be a year later, and it will be a Leona POV, at Lannisport, for the tourney celebrating Viserys' birth, so that should be exciting.


	6. Leona II

276 AC - LANNISPORT

The gull eagerly follows the trail of breadcrust through the wet sands, pecking and hopping from foot to foot, drawing ever closer to the rock where Leona is perched. The tide has gone out, and while this rock will likely be submerged when it comes back in, for now it’s warm and dry, baking under the summer sun. Leona thought she knew heat, after a lifetime in the Stormlands, but the heat of the West is different, dry and crackly, somehow, without even the damp relief of mugginess or the threat of rain lingering overhead. 

The bright blue sky is cloudless, and the sun reflecting onto the Sunset Sea is enough to blind anyone who stares directly at the horizon for too long. Even so, Leona can count dozens of fishing boats bobbing in the bay, taking advantage of the calm, fair weather, and eager to supply food for the walled, golden city behind them. Lannisport boasts eighty thousand people in the winters, when the smallfolk flock to cities for work and protection from the bitter cold, perhaps several thousand less in the warmer, kinder years. 

But during these past few months, in anticipation of the coming tourney, Leona heard a Lannister of Lannisport bragging that the city had swollen to nearly ninety thousand. She’s sure that’s exaggeration, but how would she know? As the rest of Westeros likes to scoff, the Stormlands have no true cities, only towns and villages. 

Bronzegate would beg to differ, though in the nearly three centuries since the Conquest it still has yet to secure a city charter. And pedants will argue that it is in fact three separate townships surrounding the great fortress on Buckler Hill, but any Stormlander worth his salt would tell you that Bronzegate is near enough a ‘proper fucking city’ and the next Dornishman or Reacher who disagrees is welcome to have his teeth knocked out. 

Leona has only been to Bronzegate once, and that was when she was ten; she doesn’t remember it very well, except for the great shining bronzework of the gates at the base of the hill, and the three bronze bells in each town centre, rung all together to declare every hour- Durran, Elenei, and Durran II. 

She’d only been brought along as a treat for her tenth nameday; Lord Hal had some business there, and went with Harlan Sewell, the steward, and Leona. She still remembers how special she felt, walking along beside her uncle through the cobbled streets, how for just a little while, in spates here and there, she would pretend he was her father, and she his trueborn daughter, though they looked nothing alike.

But when they stopped at a stall to examine some pendants being sold, the seller had entreated Lord Harrold to buy ‘a pretty bauble for his pretty daughter’, and how Leona had flushed and pretended at shyness, averting her eyes and shifting in her boots, while secretly thrilled. 

Until her uncle had corrected him, albeit kindly; “My pretty niece,” he’d said, a hand on Leona’s shoulder, though she always wondered if he felt her stiffen, if he regretted bringing her, seeing her ingratitude- even when he said he would, in fact, buy a pendant for her, she could not make her polite smile reach her eyes. 

She is wearing the pendant now, though it is really no fit jewelry for a lady, a maiden grown of six-and-ten. Just cheap seaglass, warm and hard against her chest. Still, she is no real lady, but a Storm, so it suffices. Grimacing as the hot wind tugs at a few locks of her blonde hair escaping her thin linen cap, she adjusts it over her braided bun, designed to keep her cool in the summer heat. 

She doesn’t think it’s doing a very good job, and besides, none of the young ladies of Lannisport wear their hair like this, only their servants. On their way down to the shore they passed by a few ladies of House Lannett, yet another cadet branch of the Lannisters, and even their hair glittered with jewels or was covered with exquisite veils of Myrish lace or Dornish silk. 

To distract herself from the clothes she feels are dowdy and plain, she focuses again on the gull, who is almost to her, squawking indignantly for more bread. 

“Greedy thing, aren’t you?” she asks, and tosses it some more. She counts all gulls as her friends since the day her sister Jeyne was turned to ashes on the beach, and for the past ten years, they’ve mostly upheld their end of the bargain. She feeds them, they come close, so she can admire their fine white-and-grey plumage and keen black eyes, and then she watches them fly out to sea, coasting on the wind, and sometimes wishes she were flying with them. 

The gull hops forward again, chirping in a more contented manner, only to suddenly dart away and wing off in a fright, not from the crash of a wave but the sound and vibrations of running feet along the sand. 

“LEO, LOOK WHAT MYRA FOUND!” A resounding squeal as the figures draw closer, splashing through pockets of seawater here and there, sending up a spray of sand and silt. “NO, DON’T LET IT TOUCH ME! DISGUSTING!”

Leona curses softly in their general direction, then ducks as something is flung past her head. Septa Dybele says a bastard’s curses may be excused since they are naturally looser of tongue, and Septa, to her credit, once used that to get her out of punishment with Mistress Sewell, who heard her swearing up a storm after she closed a trunk on her thumb. She scrambles down from her perch, heaving up her skirts so they don’t drag on the wet sand. 

“Who just threw seaweed at me?” she demands, though she has some idea. “Myra!”

Myra, who is all of three years old, pudgy and suntanned, quails under her furious glare, clutching at Flora, who pushes her away, shrieking, then relents when Myra starts to cry. 

“Don’t yell at the baby!”

“I’m not yelling!” Leona yells. 

“It wasn’t seaweed,” Flora says, now taking a vicious pleasure in the ugly truth. “It was a dead jellyfish! She wanted to put it back in the water, even though I told her a hundred times it was dead, and then she picked it up with a stick-,”

“No more sticks,” Leona decides- gods know if Myra manages to get stung, bit, or stabbed by any kind of sea creature, it will somehow be all Leona’s fault. She snatches the stick away from her youngest cousin, who begins to properly wail, and tosses it out into the shallows “And no more poking at dead things! I thought you were building a sand castle.”

Flora is now showing mercy to the little sister she was just leaving out for the crows, and picks up Myra, heaving her onto her skinny hip, even as she slips in the sand. She’s missing one of her slippers, Leona notes with dismay, and the hem of her skirts are soaked and filthy, covered in crusty sand and dirt. 

Groaning, she yanks Myra away from Flora, before she falls over and hurts them both, and puts her cousin on her hip, bouncing her lightly to get her to stop wailing and shut up. Myra usually isn’t a crier, but if anything happens to an animal anywhere within earshot of her, she’s liable to start leaking from the eyes and nose.

“We were building a castle,” Flora is saying, “but then Luke started fighting with me over who got to make the towers, and it got knocked over.” Her lower lip curls. “He’s off being a baby about it.”

Leona scans the shoreline, and makes out Lucas’ small, dark-haired form plaintively complaining to his mother, who is spread out under a canopy with the other ladies. The jousting is not due to start until the afternoon, as the tourney ends tomorrow, and most people are sick and tired of squires’ melees at this point. The stands outside Lannisport are probably abandoned by the nobility right now, and full up with the commons instead, now that they stand a chance of getting proper seats. 

This isn’t Leona’s first tourney, nor will it be her last, but it is the largest she’s ever attended, and no surprise. When Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, deigns to hold a tourney under the shadow of the mighty Casterly Rock, which even now looms over the coast, an ever-encroaching shadow, depending on the time of day, you can be sure all of Westeros will take notice. Particularly when it is in celebration of the birth of a prince. 

Leona is a bit disappointed; you’d think they’d think to bring the prince in question to said tourney, but Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys were left behind at court, supposedly because the King thought both of them in far too delicate health to risk the travel. But the Crown Prince is here, which more than makes up for it, though he is not a very public person and Leona has only caught fleeting glimpses of him, always on horseback and in that dreadful black armor, over the course of the past week. 

Still, they all say he’ll be at the feast tonight, and Lord Steffon has managed to secure them places at the feast proper, that is to say, the one held in the Rock itself. Leona finds it hard to imagine what the Lannisters’ feasting hall must look like; from the outside, Casterly Rock appears no more than a massive, craggy stone peak; it’s hard to believe that inside thousands of people live their lives, without ever needing to step down from their perch.

“You shouldn’t fight with him so,” she finds herself telling Flora distractedly. “He’s younger than you, you ought to be more mature about it-,”

“I am very mature!” Flora snaps, drawing herself up to her full height. “I’m nearly ten! But I can’t help it if he’s going to be such a- such a rat!” To illustrate her point, she scuffs at the sand with a wild kick, which sends her remaining slipper flying into the surf.

Myra giggles, her sobs having abated, while Flora flushes a little- she shows it more than most, with that pale Stark complexion- and says, bashfully, “Oh, I’ll get it-,”

“Don’t you dare, you’ll ruin your entire dress,” Leona begins, then exhales in relief as two familiar figures come bounding out of the surf, one with the slipper in hand. 

A bastard is no fit playmate for most noble stock, and so Leona had to make do growing up with the likes of the children and grandchildren of the household knights and servants. 

The Hastys are two of them; their father Ser Randyll is captain of Amberly’s guard, their uncle Ser Martyn is master-at-arms, and their mother comes from a family of petty knights sworn to the Rogers, only landed five generations back, the Kerrs. Dennis and Clarice were among the first friends she made at the castle, and she’s relieved they came along for the tourney, else she would never have lasted three moons the road with this lot. 

“Is my lady fair missing a silver slipper?” Dennis japes, tossing the shoe back to Flora, who catches it, going red all over. Dennis is twenty, broad-shouldered, and dripping wet, so Leona doesn’t blame her, though she reaches out a hand to Clarice as if to call for aid. 

Clarice laughs and stretches a hand back, their fingers brushing; she’s a year older than Leona but a head shorter, heavyset and brunette where Leona is thin and fair haired. Her and Dennis share the same mischievous brown eyes, though, and have identical amused smiles. Leona could not read nor write when she came to Amberly, and barely knew her sums, but Clarice never judged her for it, never whispered to the other children about her parentage, never left her out of games like Come Into My Castle because ‘she’d never be a real lady, anyways’. 

Flora slips the soaked shoe on, though she winces when it squelches in the sand, and trots off gamely in search of her other shoe. Florence is spoiled, but at least she’s sweet, Leona thinks. All of her uncle’s children are, or at least, not vindictive or cruel. She almost wishes she disliked them. That sort of separation might be easier, if they were the unloving family she had to abide by, and her the poor little purloined princess, waiting for her royal birth to be revealed, for a king to come carry her off.

Sixteen is too old to be moping over these sorts of things, though. She should be grateful. It’s been drilled into her head for the past ten years that above all else, she should be grateful. The Rogers could have rejected her, refused to acknowledge her as Osric’s daughter. She could be on her knees scrubbing filthy floors at The Golden Horn right now, or already wedded and bedded to a homely fisherman, living in a hut up in the hills and milking her goats while a squealing infant milks her. 

And she is grateful, in her way. She is grateful she can read and write, that she received nearly the same education even as Gareth. They could have done the bare minimum, and installed her as a servant; an honored servant, but a servant nonetheless. Instead she grew up reading poetry and epics and moral tracts, studying history and geography, learning the names of the stars in the sky above the sea and how they moved. 

Maester Blaise even consented to teach her some Valyrian, and Septa Dybele taught her to speak and dance and sing as befitting a lady, not a bastard. Septa and Septon attended to her religion; she prayed alongside her uncles and cousins, or with her grandmother, while her aunt took the others into the godswood to honor her northern gods as well. 

She took her meals with the rest of the family, and while Gareth was soon off to foster, the rest of her cousins were never forbidden from her. Branda Stark never turned her nose up at her, though she could have; had Leona not been sired by her own betrothed, a man who’d pledged himself to her, then turned around and tumbled an innkeeper’s wife? And Leona has never doubted that Hal loves her as he does his own sons and daughters. 

But the differences are there, too. She was so shocked when she heard she was permitted to join the rest of the family on this trip that she almost thought it a cruel jape. Indulging a bastard daughter behind closed doors is one thing. Parading her about in public is quite another. 

Leona has never set foot in Storm’s End or Griffin’s Roost or Sharp Point or Rain House, and doubts she ever will. But a tourney is different; people of all sorts will be present, it’s a public celebration, a public affair, and the closest she may ever get, to feeling like one of them. 

“Cheer up,” Clarice tells her, staggering out of the waves and grabbing Leona’s dry hand in her own wet one. “You look like you swallowed a crab, Leo.”

“You’re always telling me that.”

“You’ve always got a sour little look,” Clarice pouts her lips together, imitating her, and snorts when Leona elbows her. “Come dry off with me and eat. You’ve been sitting in the sun for hours, talking to the gulls.”

“I already ate,” Leona says, “and it hasn’t been hours.”

But she follows Clarice over to the ladies arrayed under the canopy anyways. They’re far from the only visitors to the beach this morning. Other highborn or wealthy common families are denoted by their brightly colored sun shades or even small tents erected in the sand, while the poor splash in the surf or stretch out across the rocks like beached seals. 

Branda Stark somehow still stands out amongst the other women, though she’s dressed as lightly as the rest, all flowing white linens and her thick dark hair tucked under a gauzy draped veil that frames her round face. Her nose is bright red, as are her cheeks; she’ll be crisping like a baked apple by tonight, Leona would wager. Still, she seems happy enough, her youngest son in her broad lap, his head lolling against her chest and she talks animatedly with her companions. 

There’s her lady’s maid, Nan, who Leona can never decide if she likes or not, and Lady Fiona, her goodsister and Leona’s own aunt, who seems tiny next to Branda, though she is not much shorter than her; where one aunt is plump and buxom, the other is narrow-waisted and narrow-shouldered, with the pointed Bar Emmon face. Then there is Clarice’s own freckled mother, Tabitha, wife of Ser Randyll, and several assorted Bar Emmon and Wylde cousins. 

Lady Cynthea is not present; she stayed back at Amberly, declaring herself too old for the long travel, and Lady Jeyne Connington is not here; she is far too grand for the likes of them, and probably off rubbing elbows with Lannisters and the other highest lords and ladies present, with her son one of Prince Rhaegar’s lucky squires. 

“Clary, you’re soaked through,” Tabitha chides as her daughter sits down beside her, sighing. 

“Leave her be, she was enjoying herself,” Pat laughs. Patricia Breen is Dennis’ wife of less than a year, and just starting to show with child; she was not when they left Amberly. Leona likes her well enough; she’s good sport for Dennis, who needs a spirited wife, like him. Leona could never abide marriage to him; she’s too serious, she knows, always closer to losing her temper than to breaking out into a good-natured grin.

Her grandmother says it’s her father in her, that Osric, while charming and open-handed, had a notorious temper. His brother is truly nothing like him; Leona can count on one hand the number of times she’s heard Harrold Rogers raise his voice in fury, though his wife can shout a house down, if she sets her mind to it. Leona supposes it’s fitting that a Stark should have a proper howl. 

“Dennis is helping Flora find her shoe,” Leona sets down Myra, who has recovered fully from her upset and now seems purely interested in the food; fruit and cheese and bread and various jams and honeys, not that Leona can blame her. She will say this; in the company of the Rogers, one always eats well. They’re never stingy about food, or paying for large quantities of it. 

“Good,” says Branda, “because I’m betting a bracelet I promised her she could have someday.”

A smattering of nervous laughter goes up; it’s fine for ladies to make wagers, but they’re not supposed to discuss them so casually. But Branda is a Stark, higher born than nearly every other woman here; who is going to chide her? Septa Dybele might have the nerve, but she’s visiting the great golden motherhouse up in the cliffs. And Lord Hal and most of the other men are up touring the fair grounds or watching the knights spar. 

“Who are you for?” Leona asks politely, picking up an orange to peel. 

“Ah, well there are no northmen left in the lists,” Branda says. The last two, Manderlys, were knocked out the day before yesterday. They didn’t look very northern to Leona, who expected wild beards and scraggly furs and axes, not knights in gleaming silver embossed armor. “So I’m taking my chances on a Dornishman instead. I say Dayne will win the day.”

“Arthur Dayne is half a god,” Lady Fiona agrees, “but age will trump glamor. Selmy has it, like the last three tourneys he was in.”

“You’re too good-hearted, all of you,” Patricia Breen tells them, drawing in the sand with a stick. “This is a Lannister tourney, and Lannister gold will win it. Lord Tywin will surely have devised some scheme to make sure one of his brothers or cousins takes the prize.”

“Just as he’s devised a scheme to make sure Aerys takes his daughter?” Branda scoffs. 

All wide eyes turn to her; even Leona is interested, as she scoops a slice of plump orange into her mouth, feeling the sweet juice burst behind her teeth.

“Truly? Is that what Hal thinks?” Fiona presses her.

“Not Hal, Lord Steffon himself,” Branda yawns; Lucas has nodded off in her lap. She lowers her voice, though they are well away from any passers-by. “He reckons Tywin means to pose the question soon. Tonight or tomorrow, before the tourney’s end, while the King is happy and well-fed and watered. His Cersei for His Grace’s firstborn.”

Leona has never seen Cersei Lannister, but they say she’s a beautiful girl of ten, with honeyed locks and eyes like emeralds. She wonders what it must feel like, to be casually described like that. Leona isn’t brimming with false modesty; she looks in a mirror and knows she’s pretty, but in a common sort of way. Her hair is more dishwater blonde than any other shade, and her eyes are too light a blue to be striking in her sun-tanned face. She’s not porcelain pale and she’s rather flat-chested and narrow-hipped, though she thinks she has lovely hands and feet, and is a good dancer. 

“They’ll be waiting some time,” Tabitha says. “The girl is just a child.”

“A child who will be flowered in a few years,” Clarice interrupts her mother. “I heard the Lannisters would sell their daughters off to the highest bidders in a Myrish slave market, if they thought there was enough gold in it.”

“Watch your tongue, before a goldcloak has it out,” Tabitha scolds her.

“Lord Tywin sits atop enough gold to last him several lifetimes,” Leona speaks up, as she selects another orange slice. She nods up at Casterly Rock, looming above them. “What more could the King grant him? He cares more for the honors, surely. His daughter will be queen.”

“A Lannister queen,” Branda says, pale eyes twinkling. “We’ve never had one of those. I look forward to it.”

Do you look forward to it because you think then you could send Flora off to court to be one of her ladies, Leona thinks with a dull pang of resentment, then pushes it away. She can hardly begrudge her aunt for wanting to elevate her children. Gods know Gareth is only fostering with the Baratheons and Julian with the Starks because of their mother’s blood, what was once the blood of kings in their own right. 

There’s a wide, wide gap between a Stark and a Rogers. And a chasm between a trueborn daughter and a bastard, too.

“If one of the Lannister brothers were to win the joust, I think it will be Ser Tygett,” Nan says quietly, though she always waits until the ladies are all silent to speak, so as not to seem insolent or presumptuous. “He’s the bigger and fiercer one.”

“True,” Pat acknowledges. “But Ser Gerion is younger and sprightlier, and he the better horseman, or so they say.”

“Who knows?” Branda adjusts her veil. “Mayhaps Lord Tywin will take to the field himself, and shock us all.”

That sends up a peal of laughter, imagining the supposedly humorless and stiff-lipped Hand of the King prancing out onto the tourney field with all those cocky young men. 

Lord Hal entered the lists himself, but was defeated by a Crakehall on the third day of the tourney, though he rode well, as always. Leona doubts her uncle had any illusions of winning, anyways. 

It was more about showing that he was still young and firm in the saddle, and that the Rogers certainly have the coin to spare to outfit knights, including their own lord, even with no real hope of winning, with competitors from all across Westeros. They say even some curious Essosi participated as well, that they view it as a grand lark, aping the traditions of a strange land full of strange people decked out in house colors and sigils. 

Leona does not see many Essosi by the time they return to the tourney grounds, though she can make out banners from all over; primarily Westerlands banners, of course- the golden lion of House Lannister is fluttering from every corner and draped across half the tents, at first glance, but there are others as well. She spots the menacing black hooded man of House Banefort, and the bright purple unicorn of House Brax, which seems like a cheap rendition of House Rogers’ own sigil. The brindled boars of House Crakehall, the burning tree of House Marbrand… 

The green and gold of the Tyrells, the orange and red of the Martells, the black and crimson of the ruling Targaryens, the red and blue of the Tullys… Leona stands no chance of recognizing most of the men in their armor, and ruefully admits she would not recognize any of them without it, either. Steffon Baratheon is the greatest lord she’s ever seen with her own eyes; the others might as well be characters from a storybook. 

Their seats are greater than they would otherwise be, and they have Lord Steffon to thank for that. While his elder son Robert is still off in the Vale with Ned Stark and old Jon Arryn, and his second son Stannis looks as though he’s being slowly tortured from his seat in the stands, and his wife Lady Cassana stayed back to tend to the ailing Princess Rhaelle (and rumoredly due to her own recent miscarriage as well, they say she’s lost four pregnancies since her second child was born). But Steffon is here, and seemingly no poorer for it, hooting and hollering from his seat like a green boy, not a great lord of the realm. 

While watching him- it seems all his money is on Rhaegar, which makes sense, as he is King Aerys’ first cousin- Leona inadvertently makes eye contact with Stannis Baratheon, who doesn’t smirk or sneer, but wrinkles his brow and nose at once and quickly looks away, as if the sight of her was repulsive to him. 

Leona is used to men leering at her once they realize she is a bastard. Never in her uncle's eyesight, but she's heard enough chatter and gossip behind his back. But somehow the disgust or even discomfort is more insulting to her than sly remarks and dirty japes. 

“Leo, look!” she’s oddly grateful for the distraction of Flora tugging on her sleeve, all but standing up in her seat as the remaining knights ride out, parading before the roaring stands. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, horse shit, and sand, as they’re constantly dumping great buckets of it to cover up the blood stains and shit stains on the ground, but no one seems to mind, carried away by the magic of the moment. Even Leona cannot pretend for long at cold aloof. 

Prince Rhaegar rides out first, of course, though he is not slated for the first joust of today. Seventeen and newly knighted, the prince sits tall and slim in the saddle, his helm under his arm to reveal his magnificent silver hair. It’s longer than Leona expected; it flows past his shoulders, easily, and is held back by a simple plait. She can’t make out his features from here, but his skin seems so pale and smooth in the bright sunlight it all but glows, and his hair shines like the moon itself. 

Flora is half in love beside her, gasping a little as Rhaegar’s white stallion canters past, while the crowds roar his name, screaming in adoration. They say he’s a quiet, bookish sort, or at least compared to his father, but he’s known to be well loved by the commons and envied and admired by all of the court, the men and women both, for his grace and beauty. 

His armor, though, Leona thinks, is terrifying, black as night and speckled with brilliant rubies like blood spatter across his breast plate, and patches of golden ringmail, like molten lava, peek through the gaps in his plate. The streamers on his helm, carried by the wind off the sea, dance like golden and scarlet flames in the air, as he places his helm atop his head, obscuring his lovely hair and porcelain skin. 

She glances up at the royal box, though it’s impossible to get a good angle from here. All she can make out is the blinding white mail of the Kingsguard, who applaud loudly as Ser Barristan Selmy enters the tourney grounds next. Leona feels sorry for the man; there is great applause for him, out of respect for his heroic legacy and years of service- they say he is still strong as a bull, even now- but compared to the reception Rhaegar got, anyone might feel slighted.

Still, he doesn’t seem fazed in the least, and why should he be? Unstooped by age, if Leona did not know he was past forty, she would never have guessed it, though his hair is white as snow, his beard neatly trimmed. After him comes Ser Arthur Dayne, who again Flora gasps aloud to see, though the Reacher section of the stands is suspiciously muted as he rides by proudly. His hair seems equal parts jet black and white blonde, and even sheathed, the sheer size of Dawn at his back is stunning. He must be nearly six and a half feet tall, to be able to wield that with any ease. 

She’s so impressed by her first sighting of the prince and Kingsguard that she scarcely recalls what the other knights looked like; the Lannister brothers wear nearly identical golden armor, though one is much bulkier than the other, Ser Tygett scowling fiercely while Ser Gerion preens for the crowd, the wind tousling his golden curls. Then there are twelve other knights left, all of the Westerlands, to no one’s surprise. 

“See if you can name them all,” Harrold is instructing Lucas, who looks rather bored, unlike the riveted Flora and the grinning Gareth, who sits besides his sober and straight-faced foster brother and cheering foster father. 

“Banefort, Crakehall, Farman-,”

“Oh, those were easy ones, Luke,” Branda scoffs.

“Kenning, Lannister of Lannisport, Lefford-,”

“Gods, he’s a clever one, isn’t he?” Lord Steffon breaks in, reaching over and ruffling Lucas’ straight brown hair as he might a dog. Lucas does not seem to appreciate that, but continues.

“Marbrand, Payne, Plumm, Stackspear, Westerling…” he trails off, trying to place the twelfth. “And…. and…”

“Come on,” Gareth urges him, squeezing his skinny shoulder. He’s always sweet to the little ones, Gareth, Leona thinks, though you wouldn’t expect it of a boy so big and hulking. And he's always been kind to her. She'd thought he might begin to ignore her now that he's almost a man, but he has always had a warm look and a pleasant word for her, as though she were his sister for true. 

But last she heard he was still in a temper, for his mother and father only let him sign up for just one of the squire’s melees, fearful of him taking a nasty blow to the head, and counseling him that he was just three-and-ten, and sheer size and strength were not always enough. 

“And Clegane,” Lucas finishes triumphantly. 

Leona is surprised to see the Cleganes are still in the running; they’re very new to the landed knighthood, not by a few generations, but just one.

“The kennelmaster’s grandson,” Lord Steffon says to Hal. “Aye, that’s the one- see him? How old do you reckon that boy is?”

Leona squints in the direction they’re looking, but can’t make much out but the plain and rusted armor. He is by far the most poorly outfitted of the assembled men.

“Eighteen?” Hal offers.

“Eleven,” Lord Steffon says.

“They can’t let a child compete,” Branda sounds horrified. “They have to pull him out, he’ll be killed!”

“That boy’s big enough to make Gare look like a beansprout,” Hal muses. “How do you like that, Gareth?”

“I could take him,” Gareth says, though he sounds less confident than usual. 

Leona cannot believe the boy is eleven. “He’s not knighted, is he?”

“No, just a squire, but the Lannisters made an exception,” Lord Steffon shocks her by speaking to her directly. “Tywin wants to show off his retinue, I expect. The Cleganes are sworn directly to the Rock. If the boy is eleven, and already strong enough- and brave enough- to compete in a joust, imagine what he’ll be able to do in another few years. That’s a beast, he is.”

The beast or boy or whatever he is, rides well, but rough. Leona winces every time she spots him dig in his spurs, and when his steed bellows in pain Myra bursts into tears. Branda’s lips go taut with frustration; she’s a great lover of horses, claims all Stark women are, and Leona has seen her tear into grooms before for mishandling them, or breaking them in badly. 

Fortunately, the Clegane is thrown when his mount balks at a Brax, and that’s the end of that, though he seems unhurt by the fall, only infuriated, aiming a kick at the horse as a terrified looking squire leads it off the track. The Brax loses in the next joust to Prince Rhaegar, who steadily climbs the ranks, disqualifying knight after knight as time stretches on. Every so often he seems to glance up at the royal box, but if the king is cheering for his firstborn, Leona can’t hear him. 

She wonders if they don’t get along; many fathers and sons don’t, so why should the Targaryens be any different? Osric Rogers is said to have always been butting heads with her grandfather Lord Benedict, who died well before she was born, and everyone knows the tale of Lord Tywin’s stormy relations with his own father, Lord Tytos. And no one could call King Aerys ‘serious’ or ‘bookish’, from what she has heard. 

They say he is still handsome enough, to be sure, though not quite as eye catching as his offspring, and that he is a great lover of feasts and celebrations and tourneys, though he stopped participating in jousts years ago, and was never one for melees. Leona has heard he has finally sworn all other women save his wife Queen Rhaella, too, after all that business with one of his mistresses being killed for supposedly poisoning one of his many, many dead sons.

Finally it is down to Rhaegar, the Lannister brothers, and the two Kingsguard. Leona feels her attention drawn back to the intensity of the joust, as the final matches are made. Rhaegar rides against Ser Tygett now, whose helm is a snarling lion’s head, complete with carved and gilded mane. Leona can’t see the Lannister seats from where she is sitting, but she imagines they are on the edge of them. 

At first it seems Ser Tygett will surely prevail; even his horse seems bigger and fiercer than Rhaegar’s destrier, but his lance shatters almost immediately, and a great cry of dismay goes up. When Ser Tygett tugs off his helm to concede his loss, his broad face is bright red with exertion and anger, though he nods politely to his prince. 

It may console him that his brother quickly follows him in defeat; Ser Gerion loses his shield and then almost his seat, sliding from the saddle, but manages to right himself with an impressive contortion of his armored frame, so he still draws cheers and amazed laughter, even in his defeat, which he takes much more gracefully than his elder brother, tossing gold coins to the shrieking commons. 

Then it is Rhaegar against Ser Barristan. They tilt once, twice, with no conclusive winner, just the screaming of the crowd, but on the third tilt Rhaegar breaks Barristan’s shield neatly in half with the force of his thrust, and the older knight claps him on the back as he might a son, before riding off without complaint. Leona wonders if the prince is excited now, if he’s losing his nerve; now it is just down to him and Ser Arthur, who salutes the royal box as he loops back around for his tilt.

“Come on,” Branda is saying under her breath. “Come on, knock him down, Dayne-,”

“Mother, that’s the Crown Prince,” Flora is horrified. 

“And this is my wager, so hush up, sweetling.”

They gallop to a head, the crowd hushes in anticipation, and then, in the blink of an eye, Rhaegar is on the ground, seemingly unharmed, but far from his lance, his shield useless beside him. To his credit, he’s back on his feet almost instantly, as Ser Arthur rides back around to him, grabs his mailed fist, and holds it aloft. The crowds love it; for a moment it seems like the commons section might spill over and onto the field, but then Rhaegar is back in the saddle, riding off without hesitation, as Ser Arthur is declared the victor. 

“They all rode well,” Gareth is saying, “that’s the best circuit I’ve ever seen-,”

Branda is tapping Lord Steffon on the shoulder with a pleased grin. 

He sighs exaggeratedly, then drops a shining brooch into her open palm, which she admires, before pinning it on her husband’s chest. 

“There you go,” she says. “Now you can’t complain I’ve given you no jewels, Hal.”

He rolls his eyes but kisses her sweetly, while their children look away in disgust. Leona feels another pang in her chest. She will never have that. At least, not like this. Even if they found a husband who loved her, he’d be a humble landed or household knight, and they’d never sit so high in the stands, never casually wager on priceless gems and golden ornaments. She should be pleased that she will someday marry at all, and not be pushed into taking the veil. 

But it is just hard not to want more, sometimes. 

They return to their tent to change for the evening’s feast at the Rock; they may have been invited for Lady Branda’s Stark blood and Lord Steffon’s friendship, but that doesn’t mean they were guaranteed rooms in the keep itself, though there are hundreds, all reserved for much greater houses than theirs. Than theirs, not hers, she reminds herself. A bastard has no house, not truly. She will never wear black and silver. 

She dresses quickly, without need of a maidservant like Nan to help her, in her finest gown; a rich emerald green in color, bisected by a bright yellow strip of needlework she did herself, all trailing vines and flowers, fit for a summer’s eve. Though her girdle cinched at the waist is just plain cord, not gold or silver metalwork, like many of Branda’s. Even little Flora will wear silver baubles in her ears tonight. But a bastard daughter should not be so well ornamented; it looks insolent and presumptuous. 

She’s stepped out from behind her screen when Clarice comes skirting into the tent, bowing her head to Branda, who is distracted anyways with her own dressing and with helping Flora outfit herself, and grabs her by the hands. 

“Please, please,” she says, “beg off the castle feast tonight, you’ve got to come out with us.”

Leona riles at the thought. “Come out where?” she demands. “Don’t tell me you want to go to some tavern down by the docks-,”

“Do you take me for a slattern?” Clarice pretends at mock offense, a hand on her breast. “Come on, Leo, you know you’ll be bored sick up in some stuffy feasting hall, nowhere near the high table. They’ll stick you with the household knights and their wives, or the squires and lady’s maids.”

It’s true, but that doesn’t do much to take the sting away. Leona knows Clarice doesn’t mean it to jibe at her, but the hurt must show on her face.

“But,” Clarice says hastily, “if you come with us- come on, out in the open air- the mummer’s have promised a grand show- for our eyes only, not the high lords!” She lowers her voice to a whisper, not that anyone’s listening. “And there’ll be the country dancing, too.”

Country dancing is notoriously… looser in decorum than what the nobles do in their gilded halls. No chaperones fussing besides mothers and father, half too drunk to care, the other half tossing each other about like rag dolls. Knights and smallfolk and merchants will mingle down here, under the stairs, wandering from bonfire to bonfire, as acrobats skip by and tigers and lions roar from the menagerie’s cages. 

“There’s to be fireworks, too!” Clarice says, hopefully, and silly as it is, that is what seals it. 

Leona makes up her mind before she can change it, and begs leave. 

Other women would have been offended and aghast, but she knows her aunt well enough by now to know that Branda will indulge her in this. Branda pities her.

“Go as you please,” Branda says, massaging some ointment onto her face and arms to take away the burn, “but keep close to Patricia and Clarice. Hal will have my head if he finds I’ve let you spend the night rousing with drunken squires and hedge knights.”

“I’ll keep with the other women,” Leona promises her, “and I’ll be back in the tent by midnight.”

Branda hesitates, then nods. “See that you are. You’re a good girl, Leona, but men turn into dogs past a certain hour.”

Giddy and regretful all at once- she will never see the inside of Casterly Rock, now- Leona follows Clarice out into the gathering dusk, rushing to catch up with Dennis and Pat on his arm, as they join the crowds making their way down to the ‘bastard’s feast’, while others alight into wheelhouses for their travel up to the castle. 

They find a place at a table under some pavilion; Leona is overwhelmed by how… free, everything is, people just sit where they please, and while the knights and their women have the best seats, they all eat the same food, and serve themselves, for there’s not nearly enough servants to go around, and the pages are running ragged, and the smallfolk certainly aren’t offering to pour anyone’s wine or cut their meat. 

The food isn’t so different from what she’d eat at home; they’re still close to the sea, after all, but Leona delights in picking up olives and nuts by the handful and letting them scatter across her plate, and Dennis spears pickled meats off a passing tray for her and the other women. “Oh, their cheese isn’t half bad!” Pat says, swallowing hard, and giggling as Clarice takes her wine away from her.

“No more than a glass for a woman in your condition,” Clarice says archly, while Dennis rubs her belly- “For luck!” he swears.

“You’re a sot,” Patricia accuses him, “and you’re a cruel bitch, Clary Hasty.”

“So they tell me,” Clarice retorts, grinning, and downing the rest of the cup.

Leona has only ever been permitted one cup at feasts, and she is certainly not with child, but now she indulges; what’s the harm? There’s no one here to chide her or scowl at her, and here, no one knows she is a bastard, no one knows her father is dead, no one knows her mother was just an innkeeper. 

She’s on her second cup as they slurp down beef stew and pick apart chicken roast with their greasy fingers, and every so often a cry goes up from the center of the pavilion, where they’re hosting a cockfight. She thinks she even spots that Clegane beast-boy in the crowd, shouldering his way through men twice his age without any daring to raise a complaint. 

No one touches the salads; this is a tourney’s dry summer night, the salt of the sea in the air, and people want their meat, their mead, and their sweets. Leona spoons ripe blackberries and strawberries onto her plate, slices of melon, delighting in how fresh everything is, even as flies descend, only warded off by all the braziers. The pavilion is sweltering by the time they bring out the desserts, and her head is swimming, from the heat and the wine and the laughter and shouts all around her. 

Two squires get into a drunken brawl on the floor, egged on by their own knights, until a passing women upends her wine onto their faces, and they lap it up like puppies. 

There’s rum cakes topped with whipped cream and glazed cherries, crunchy almond biscuits, fried pastries coated in sugar, apricot and peach tarts, and chewy spice bread packed with dried fruits and nuts. Leona is used to watching what she eats- not because she fears gaining weight but because they say bastards are gluttons at heart, even the women, always taking and taking- but now she wants to try some of everything, and does, until it feels like her belly might burst and her teeth ache. 

There’s applause and laughter from outside, and she catches a glimpse of a man juggling fire while a woman walks around him, tossing swords in the air and catching them, clad in sheer silks and nothing more. 

“Oh,” she says, straining to get a better look. 

“Want to see?” Dennis is red from his own wine, and grabs her hand as easily as he has a thousand times before, when they were just children.

Clarice is sleeping, laying her head down on the table, and Patricia is chatting with another woman, a perfect stranger, some other knight’s wife, Leona supposes. Dennis earned his spurs just before his wedding; Harrold knighted him himself, while the household cheered and applauded politely. 

“We shouldn’t leave them,” Leona says, but it’s impossible to be heard over this noise, and he’s tugging her outside. 

She stumbles after him gamely enough, regaining her footing once she’s not dodging slop and drunks and dogs on the floor, and is relieved by how much cooler the air outside seems in contrast to the heat of the pavilion. Dennis is tugging his shirt from his chest, where it was sticking with sweat; he sees her looking and laughs, brushing his fingers across her cheek. 

Leona jerks away, giggling, and then gazes at the fire juggler and the sword dancer. 

The man is singing in another tongue as the flaming pins whistle through the air, while his companion is every so often letting the swords nick at her clothes, until one of her breasts is almost visible. The woman’s hair is dyed a brilliant blue-green; is she a Tyroshi? 

“Leo,” Dennis murmurs in her ear, and she turns and finds his mouth on hers. 

She stands there, shocked, for a moment, and then as his tongue pushes past her lips, wrenches away from his sweaty grasp, blinking back tears of humiliation and shock. People passing by are laughing as they see him grab her by the waist to kiss her again, but she gets a hand free and slaps him. It has about as much effect as a kitten batting at someone. 

“What are you doing?” he says thickly, recoiling more in surprise than actual pain. To her relief, he's let go of her waist. 

“What are you doing?” she spits, backing away from him, her arms wrapped around herself. “I- you’re drunk!”

“I am, and you’re beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful.” He is drunk, but not so far gone he’s senseless. His eyes are clear and bright, his face is red- from the wine and her slap- and he is handsome. She’s always thought him handsome. But not- not now, not like this.

“You have a wife,” she says, as the crowd around them cheers, the flames wheeling higher, another scrap of silk tearing away. 

“I do, and she’s bearing my child,” he says, “it’s only natural for a man to look elsewhere-,”

“Then find a whore!” she snaps, resisting the urge to run off into the crowd like a child. She might get lost. She doesn't know this place well at all, and there are men much worse than Dennis Hasty out there. 

He says nothing, for a moment, licks his lips, and says, “Why can’t it be you? We’re friends, aren’t we-,”

“I am not-,” she feels a wave of sickness in her gut, and then suddenly it’s like her belly’s loosened. She doubles over and vomits. People around them jerk away, swearing in disgust, and Dennis stands there dumbly, then takes her by the arm and leads her back to the pavilion. 

Leona tries to rip away from him again, but is too busy emptying her guts, and finds herself settled on the bench beside Pat- his wife!- wiping at her mouth with her hand. 

“Couldn’t hold your wine, could you?” Patricia pats her sympathetically, then shoves at Clarice. 

“Ay, get up, Leo needs to lie down. Help me get her back to the tent.”

Clarice rouses, murmuring, while Dennis mutters something about getting her some water, and vanishes. 

“What happened to his face?” Pat asks, as she helps Leona stand again.

“I don’t know,” Leona lies, then makes herself retch again so she doesn’t have to answer anymore questions.

She watches the fireworks an hour later through the tent flaps, ignoring the guards’ cheers and gasps at the colorful lights bursting over the bay, each display accompanied by a roar from the tourney grounds, where thousands stand shoulder to shoulder, faces upturned, watching golden and scarlet lions frolic through the night sky, and crimson dragons soar, spurting purple and green flames. 

Leona doesn’t want to change out of her clothes; even ducking behind a screen, which she’d usually think nothing of, seems suddenly unwise with men so close. She’s known most men of the garrison since she was just a little girl. But the same could be said for Dennis. Is that what they all think of her as? Not quite a whore, but something close to it? Someone… available to them, if they’re upset, or lonely, or angry with their wives? 

If she told her uncle he’d banish Dennis from Amberly. But Clarice- and Ser Randyll and Ser Martyn- and what if he says differently, claims that she is simply drunk and misremembering, that she’s always had a girlish crush, and that she’s simply embarrassed to have kissed him, and trying to cover her tracks? What if he thinks she’s lying? She wants to vomit again. She can’t do that. 

Wiping at her eyes, she lies down in her rumpled, sweaty gown, and tries to sleep, though she can’t do more than doze until Flora excitedly shakes her awake hours later.

“Leona, were you drunk?” she whispers far too loudly. “You smell like wine, and you’re still in your gown.”

“Leave her be, Flora. Come to bed,” she hears Lady Branda say. She sounds bleary herself.

“I will,” Flora says. Her breath fans out hot and sweet against Leona’s wet cheek. 

“But- I just wanted to tell you, you should have come with us! It was the most magical- most wonderful- everything was gold, and all the cups and cutlery were solid gold, and people were trying to steal them in their purses, and they had a whole gallery of minstrels playing, and there were lions in cages up from the menagerie, with ribbons and bells in their manes- and- and Mother danced with Lord Tywin, she did, and he hated it!”

Leona rolls over, murmuring in her pretend sleep, squeezing her eyes shut tightly and wishing she could plug her ears as well. The revelers can still be heard outside, laughing and cheering and dancing around the fires and under the stars. 

Flora either gives up, or simply runs out of breath, and leaves her be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes:
> 
> 1\. So I feel like I should include a general warning; this fic is taking a more serious turn after this chapter, and while there are still going to be more lighter moments, we're starting to get into the direct lead-up to Robert's Rebellion, and future chapters will by and large have a darker tone. Around Chapter 8 this fic's rating is probably going to bump up to Mature (for graphic violence and disturbing imagery). This is not a grimdark fic in general, I don't like to write nihilistic plots in general, but I don't want anyone to be caught off guard because they expected more light-hearted family romp and ended up with war and executions. 
> 
> 2\. All of GRRM's cities in Westeros are probably huge compared to *most* medieval cities, but Lannisport is still less than half the population of King's Landing (about 500,000) at 80,000 inhabitants. This is Leona's first experience in a city and at a tourney, given her very sheltered upbringing at Amberly. It's not really common for bastard children to be traveling with the rest of the family, especially not to visit other noble families, so this tourney is really her first taste of the outside world.
> 
> 3\. True story: my cousin once chased me around a beach with a dead jellyfish on a stick. 
> 
> 4\. Leona is very well educated and has clearly shifted from viewing herself as a member of the smallfolk to that of a young noble. The problem here is that she is a bastard, and everyone around her is well aware of it. While the Rogers family has always treated her very kindly, Leona is perceptive enough and mature enough to realize that she will never be considered a 'real lady', and that lords and ladies will certainly never treat her the same as they would her trueborn cousins. Most of her cousins are much younger than her; the closest in age is Gareth, and he has been off to foster, and just in general often segregated from her on basis of gender. 
> 
> 5\. I wanted to mostly get across that tourneys are a very big deal and spectacle for people, and especially Leona is amazed to see all these famous people she's only ever heard of before. Someone like Rhaegar or Arthur Dayne is basically a rock star to her. At the same time, the class divide is very apparent during these events. Leona's marriage options are very limited and very low. She is someone who is naturally ambitious and intelligent, and she does not have the option to try to rise up the ranks with some position at court, or to go to the Citadel and study to become a maester. She could become a septa, but that doesn't really appeal to her ambitions either. 
> 
> 6\. Leona impulsively decides to skip the noble feast and attend the 'common' one instead because of her mixed feelings towards her position in general - what's the point of partying with the lords and ladies if she's still going to be in a lower tier? Also because she's a teenager, and wants a night without much adult supervision for once in her life. 
> 
> 7\. Unfortunately the vast majority of sexual assaults are committed by someone the victim knows. Dennis may have 'only' forced a kiss on an unwilling Leona, but it's still a very traumatic and shitty thing to have happened to her, and this is a major blow to her sense of security- this is someone she lives with and who she sees everyday, her best friend's brother, whose father is like her uncle's right hand man. If she can't trust someone she grew up with to not see her in that manner, to not harass or objectify or even make unwanted advances on her, who can she really depend on? 
> 
> 8\. Next two chapters will be Gareth, and they will cover the aftermath of Aerys refusing Cersei as a wife for Rhaegar, and the Defiance of Duskendale.


	7. Gareth II

277 AC - THE RED KEEP

Gareth has been at court for six weeks when he gets into his first fight, which he thinks his father would be proud of. Not the fighting; Gareth once got into a tussle with his cousin Ronald during a visit to Griffin’s Roost, and even though Ronald started it by tripping him down the steps to the bailey, Father still threatened to take Gareth inside and belt him, though he never followed through on it. 

But Father would be proud of him, he thinks, for going so long unprovoked. At Storm’s End, Gareth spars with Stannis, and they wrestle around sometimes, though Stannis hates to because while he is taller, Gareth is stronger, and usually wins, but they’ve never gotten in a real, proper fist-fight. Gareth can’t imagine Stannis throwing a fist at anyone, or even giving an angry shove. 

Not because Stannis is craven, or timid- he isn’t, he’s stubborn as an ox, which Princess Rhaelle says he gets from her and her Blackwood mother- but because that’s not the proper way of things, and Stannis is always very set on doing what’s proper. 

Stannis would duel a man if he had to, like in the stories, but he’d never get into a brawl, no matter how angry he was. Gareth is certain of that. Sometimes it irks him; Stannis’ temper is arguably much worse than his own- the slightest thing can set him to grinding his teeth and scowling moodily- but he’s not impulsive, he won’t raise a hand, only his voice. Gods, can he bellow. 

And bellowing is what he’s doing, while Gareth rolls around in the dirt on top of the lippy bastard. He calls the other boy that in his head because he’s a Lonmouth, and their sigil is ridiculous- quartered bright red lips and yellow skulls, a sigil designed to provoke and shock, between the impudent mouths and the leering, grinning skulls. 

The bellowing suddenly stops, and Gareth turns incredulously to see that Stannis has stopped yelling at them because Myles Mooton, that whey-faced bastard, has just given him a hell of a clout around the ears. Myles Mooton is twelve years old, but acts like he’s sixteen and a man grown because his big-headed father is already bragging about his jousting abilities. 

He’s only so puffed up in the first place because he’s one of the prince’s squires, and the prince’s squires, as Gareth has quickly learned, walk around the Red Keep like swaggering bravos, taking orders from no man, they insist (unless in the presence of His Grace the King) save their royal knight master. 

Stannis has staggered from the blow, face crimson with humiliation and rage at being hit so casually. 

“BEAT HIS FACE IN!” Gareth roars, then gasps in delight as Stannis puts his head down- like a bull- and tackles Myles to the ground, landing in a great cloud of dust and muffled grunts and cries. 

Gareth is so busy laughing that he’s distracted from his task, which was rubbing more dirt across the helm of the Lonmouth shit, who he’s currently struggling with on the ground, and a finger jabs him in the eye. 

He recoils with a yelp, and the Lonmouth- who’s a head shorter and much skinnier than him- wriggles away, grabs him by the hair- his helm fell off ages ago- and starts whaling on him with the flat of his practice blade. 

“Let- go- you- weaselly- little- shit-,” Gareth grits out, trying to get some purchase in the dirt and wrench away from Lonmouth, and is rewarded with another blow. 

Gasping in pain, he goes limp, and his dead weight is sufficient to cause the smaller boy to stagger behind him, suddenly forced to hold him up. Gareth flips around, wrestles Lonmouth back to the ground, straddles him, and rips his helm off so he can punch him properly. He’s startled by the keen green eyes peering back at him from a freckled, flushed face. 

He’s seen Richard Lonmouth around before, of course, but never up close, and is suddenly forced to reconcile the sneering, swaggering image he’d built up in his head, with the slender, stunned boy underneath him. Richard’s hair is proper red- not auburn, not red gold, but flaming, autumn orange, and sprouts up tufty and thick from his head. His dark green eyes are big, maybe because his face is small and short, tapering to a pointed chin- and his cheeks are high and broad. If he was a girl, if he had more delicate features, he’d be heart-faced. Instead, he’s fox-faced. 

Gareth feels the color rise to his own face, in spite of his anger- if Richard were uglier, it’d be easier to just haul off and bloody his lips, which are unusually dark in color-

“What, run out of words, Rogers?” Richard mocks in his creaky youth’s voice- he’s the same age as Gareth, four-and-ten. “Is that about as far as Maester taught you? Or do you not have one? What hovel did you crawl out of, tell us quick-,”

Gareth remembers the sting in his back and legs from Richard’s sword, and with a rush of anger, pulls back his fist again-,

“BOYS!”

Shit, Gareth thinks, and rolls off Richard, who sits up, panting for breath, and looking relieved, despite his smirk. 

Stannis is standing again, while Myles Mooton scrabbles onto his hands and knees, huffing and puffing, his blonde hair hanging lank and sweaty in front of his eyes, mopping at his face with a shaking hand. Stannis has a bruise developing along his sharp jaw, and is covered in dust, glowing in his dark hair in the afternoon sunlight, but is otherwise unharmed. 

“Get up, Rogers,” Harbert Baratheon, Stannis’ great-uncle and Lord Steffon’s master-at-arms and often right hand man, snarls at Gareth. He'd never speak so harshly to Stannis; the only man allowed to shout at Stannis is his father, and he never has- Stannis never does anything worth shouting at. 

Gareth gets up, dusting off his breeches. 

“Trained both of you since boyhood, did I, to scrap about like drunken journeymen behind an alehouse? Where the fuck are your blades! Put them up, before I take them and shove them so far-,”

Gareth hastily collects his sword, where he left it on the side- unlike Lonmouth, he’s not a craven, he doesn’t use a sword in a fist-fight- and tosses Stannis his- he catches it, scowling accusatory at Gareth as if this were somehow all his fault. Gareth shoots him an annoyed glance in return, and ignores him. 

Richard has popped back up to his feet, and is helping Myles up. 

“I’d ask who started this nonsense, but I don’t have all day,” Ser Harbert says curtly. “Lonmouth, Mooton, off with the two of ye. Don’t you have a prince to attend to?”

“He wanted to be left alone,” Myles begins sullenly, chewing on his lower lip, but Richard grabs him by the arm and yanks him off, with a parting snide grin at Gareth, who wants to make an obscene hand gesture but resists. 

“Your father wants both of you in attendance at court today,” Ser Harbert addresses Stannis, who is buckling his sword belt sullenly. “You have-,” he glances up at the sun overhead. “Half an hour to make yourselves presentable, or you’ll be thrown in a black cell for the night for coming to court looking like butcher’s boys.”

Seeing that they seem sufficiently cowed, Harbert stomps off, relying on his left leg instead of his right. An old war wound has been acting up lately, and Gareth knows he worries that he will no longer be able to serve as master-at-arms in another year or two, though he mustn’t think Lord Steffon would begrudge him it. Steffon Baratheon is notoriously generous, especially with family and friends- he’d find another honorable position for his uncle without thinking twice of it. 

Gareth knows he’s lucky; he’s the ward of an unusually indulgent and light-hearted man, for a ruling lord of a great house, and ordinarily a Rogers would never get the chance to grow up close as brothers with a Baratheon. But he can’t help but wish he’d gotten to go home with his family after the tourney at Lannisport six moons ago. Not because he’s tired of the Baratheons, who’ve always been kind and welcoming, but because he’s tired of court. Shaking sweat from his curly hair like a dog, Gareth follows after Stannis, who as usual is stalking ahead, head down, hands rigid at his sides. 

“He was just japing, your uncle,” Gareth assures him, forced to quicken his pace to catch up as they ascend a set of sandstone steps leading into Maegor’s Holdfast. “They wouldn’t really throw us in the black cells for coming to court dirty. Begging brothers come in filthy all the time.”

“I know that,” Stannis snaps, without turning around, voice cracking slightly in anger. “Do you truly think I believed that tripe? I’m not a child.”

Not like you, his tone implies. Gareth loves Stannis like a brother, else he’d give him another clout for that. 

“Then what are you so sore about?” Gareth demands, as they turn around a corner, past a room where the faint sound of the lute slips out from under the crack below the door. “You were winning! We both were, they won’t try us again, trust me-,”

“We shouldn’t have fought in the first place,” Stannis snaps. “It was unseemly, and beneath us. We’re supposed to be squires. We’re going to be knights. Knights do not brawl like- like drunken journeymen.” 

He brushes more dust off his black jerkin as they hurry past an unending row of tapestries, some dating back to the Targaryens’ days on Dragonstone. When he first arrived at the castle Gareth would stop and stare at them in wonder, but now he just rushes along, treating them as inconsequentially as everyone else. 

“Knights have to know how to defend themselves if they lose their swords, though,” Gareth points out. “My father taught me holds when I was little, he says if you don’t know how to grapple, and you wind up without a horse or arms at hand, you’re as good as dead-,”

“We weren’t grappling, we were brawling,” Stannis cuts him off. “And you shouldn’t have risen to the provocation.”

That’s rich, coming from him. Gareth has seen Stannis go from calm as can be to steaming mad in moments, based off a mere comment or look alone. It’s like he has all this crackling lightning inside him, but he won’t let it out because he’s afraid he’ll set himself ablaze and blow his hair off, or something. 

“And you wanted to fight, anyways,” Stannis continues sharply, as they climb yet another winding stairwell. “You were just looking for an excuse.”

Gareth can’t argue with that; he’s never been a liar. 

“Fine, I wanted to fight,” he says, amiably enough. “What’s so wrong with that? They were asking for it, weren’t they? Boys are supposed to fight.” Gareth doesn’t see the harm. He always feels better after a good scrap, like there’s a load off his shoulders. 

He doesn’t even have to be all that angry or offended to start one. Sometimes he just gets restless, and wants to fight. Julian is always happy enough to oblige him, but Julian’s tucked away at snowy Winterfell with their cousins, so Gareth doesn’t have anyone to pick fights with save Stannis, who takes everything far too seriously. 

“Boys,” Stannis retorts, as they reach the floor where their quarters are. “Not men.”

“Oh, and you’re a man now?” Gareth can’t resist, even as Stannis glances back to shoot him a dirty look. “Ah, come off it, Baratheon. You know you enjoyed yourself, taking Mooton to task. Gods, but you made him bleat, you did! He won’t soon forget that, no, he won’t!”

Stannis’ mouth twitches in what might be the barest shadow of a smile; then he turns back around as he wrenches open the door to their chambers. 

Lilly, who is in charge of their quarters and clothes and making sure everything is clean, is loudly dismayed to see them in such a state, and Gareth grins and shoots Stannis looks out of the corner of his eye as the maidservant fusses over them, then calls for two baths to be brought up, declaring they’ll have to scrub themselves raw to look ready for court today. 

“You’d best scrub,” Gareth tells Stannis. “Maybe it’ll take that sour look off your face.”

“Come here,” says Stannis, straight-faced.

Gareth steps closer, frowning. 

Stannis flicks him in the forehead.

“Ow,” Gareth grumbles, clapping a hand to his brow. “You’ve felled me, you have, Ser.”

Stannis ignores him, moving into the other room to bathe. Gareth pulls a face after him, then sets to work stripping out of his filthy clothes. By the time he’s done, he’s standing there nearly naked while two wide-eyed maids are lugging in the tub; Gareth doesn’t say anything crass, but can’t help but laugh when one looks back over her shoulder as they leave, and her partner gives her a smack. 

He’d prefer a much longer soak to ease his sore, aching muscles, but he knows that as patient as Lord Steffon is, being publicly late for court would be pushing it, and Stannis would drag him out of the bath by the ear if he had to; he hates to be late, so he never is. When he’s done, he quickly towels off and puts on the clothes Lilly laid out for him hours ago; his doublet is silk, so as to keep him cool in the often sweltering throne room- in the summer you can see people sweating through their clothes, especially the overstuffed courtiers sitting in the galleries- and he reluctantly puts on his best boots, not his usual well-worn and rumpled ones. 

Just as he finishes dressing the door slams open and Stannis walks in, hair not even damp, as if he just stuck his head out the window and let the wind dry him off. He’s dressed in Baratheon black and yellow, the stag emblazoned across his chest in golden thread. 

“Good,” he says, seeing Gareth clothed. “You’re ready.”

“I’m not a child,” Gareth says reproachfully. “I can dress for court, you know. It’s hardly my first time.”

Stannis mutters something under his breath as he leads the way out; it sounds suspiciously like ‘Could have fooled me.’. 

Gareth rolls his eyes, and follows him, letting the door close behind them with a resolute thud. It’s just court. Nothing interesting ever happens. 

Court is not as crowded as it sometimes is; Gareth blames the heat. It’s a sleepy summer afternoon, and even the most devoted courtiers might think better of having to dress in their best finery and trudge down into the throne room, which lacks any ventilation, because none of the great stained glass windows open, and if they do, it’s only a few inches. The upper galleries especially, where most of the lords and ladies have reserved seating, are very, very hot and stuffy. 

Gareth follows Stannis to their velvet cushioned seats in the front, almost directly overlooking the massive Iron Throne below. The first time Gareth saw the throne, all he could do was gape, feeling as if he’d just stumbled into one of his mother’s stories. It didn’t look at all like he’d expected; in his head the throne was simply a fancy chair with some swords welded to the back and legs. 

The Iron Throne is not that. In order to reach it one has to climb a steep, sloping series of ancient stone steps, warped and smoothed by hundreds of years of footfall, and Gareth wonders how the old kings ever tottered up it at all. Perhaps that is why so many of them died young; the Iron Throne was not built for old men, or clumsy men, or slow men. The steps are at such an angle you can’t stand still on them for long before you’d start to stumble and lose your balance. You have to climb, or fall. 

And the seat itself is small and narrow; a fat or even a very broad man could never sit it comfortably, though perhaps people were just thinner and shorter back then. The seat is completely overshadowed by the asymmetrical, jagged, almost maw-like profusion of swords all around it; they almost enclose the king, as if he were locked in the jaws of some great iron beast. You have to sit up entirely straight, or you’ll be stabbed. You have to keep your knees bent just so, or you’ll slice your legs open. You have to keep your arms steady on the rests, or you’ll slit your wrists. It is impossible to slouch, recline, or sag on the throne. Gareth wonders how anyone ever sits it without sweating buckets, or wearing all their armor. 

King Aerys II Targaryen is not wearing armor. In fact, Gareth has never seen the man in armor. Though knighted years ago during the last war, and while he often carries a gilded sword at his hip, Gareth can’t recall having ever heard of King Aerys being in the training yard, or drilling with the Kingsguard like the kings of old sometimes did. Lord Steffon says that gods be good, the age of warrior kings is well and truly over, and they should be grateful Westeros does not require a warlike leader. 

Gareth is grateful, he supposes, though like most boys of fourteen he thinks he’d quite enjoy a war, even a little one. But he can’t help being a bit disappointed. He’d expected someone like the tales of King Aegon V, the Fortunate, the king of his parents’ childhood. King Aegon was a friend to all and brave as a lion (or a dragon), everyone says so. No one expected him to ever rule, but he did, and he ruled well, though his children courted rebellion at every turn, his wife worshipped the old gods, not the Seven, and his reign ended in tragedy and the near-destruction of the Targaryen line.

Gareth has never been to Summerhall, though his father has in passing. Father says it’s a sad, strange place, and you can still taste ash on the wind on dry days. Flora is always begging to go, begging to see the ruins, and there are rumors that every few months Prince Rhaegar takes off for the road and rides out to Summerhall to play his harp and dig through the bones of his dead kin, but Gareth isn’t stupid enough to ask if that’s true. 

He doesn’t see much of the Crown Prince, though he’d like to. Rhaegar may be bookish, but everyone say he’s a fine warrior, a prodigy, born to swing a sword and wield a lance, even if he’d rather bury his nose in books and scrolls. He catches a glimpse of Rhaegar now, sitting in the opposite gallery with his mother and brother. 

Even seated, Rhaegar towers over his mother, who is of middling height. Queen Rhaella’s face is turned away as she murmurs back and forth with her dozen or so ladies; despite the heat she’s dressed very modestly, her silver gold hair covered by a gauzy wimple, her crown glinting faintly in the fading sunlight. 

She holds the little prince on her lap; Prince Viserys was scarcely two months old when his father left King’s Landing for the tourney in Lannisport, and by the time the royal party returned, the Baratheons in tow, he was past eight months. Now he crawls and yells and throws toys, but at present seems drowsy and pleased to be in his mother’s soft lap, his pale head lolling against her chest, eyes fluttering. 

Everyone knows the king has been in very high spirits since the long-awaited birth of a healthy second child, and is in even higher spirits now that Viserys is approaching a year old with no signs of illness or weakness. The other babes that were born alive all died in the days, weeks, or months after their birth; Gareth knows that much from Lilly, who sometimes whispers about it with the maids. 

Lilly once said that King Aerys was so wroth after the death of Prince Aegon, who was born two moons too soon and who died but four moons later, that he decided it was Queen Rhaella’s fault, that she had made a cuckold of him, and he denounced her as a treacherous whore in front of half the court and had her locked up in her apartments in Maegor’s Holdfast, with all her ladies interrogated or dismissed outright, and two septas watching her every waking hour. 

But it was all for naught; because there was no proof, not even a scrap, that Queen Rhaella had ever been unfaithful, or even spoken to any men alone, not once. So a few years later, when she fell with child again, the king was forced to admit the babe could only be his, and rejoiced at his birth. 

But that baby died too, half a year later, not of any illness or injury but in his sleep. They say it was his mistress who did it, that she poisoned Prince Jaehaerys because she sought to bear the king’s second son herself, and could not countenance him having another by the queen. They all went to the rack for it, her and her whole family, and then the gallows. 

Gareth doesn’t know if that’s true, because he remembers when his parents heard, his father would not speak of it, but Mother said that sometimes babes forgot to breathe and just died in the night, and that it was no one’s fault, it was just when the gods chose to take them. She also said that men were tortured all the time and said all kinds of absurd things, not because they were true but because the pain made them mad, but Grandmother didn’t want her to speak of it anymore after that, so she didn’t. 

Gareth finds it difficult to reconcile the idea of the king proclaiming his wife a whore or having his mistress tortured and executed with the jovial man on the throne today. By now he’s been to enough court sessions to know that King Aerys will either be in a very good mood, or a very poor mood. When he’s in a very good mood, he laughs and smiles with ease; his uncomfortable seat does not seem to bother him in the least, and the light gleams in his silver gold hair. He is three and thirty and still has his good looks, his face smooth and unlined, without even a beard to age him. The only trace of his years are in his slightly receded hairline. 

When he’s in a very poor mood, he seems almost another man entirely; he’s cold and curt in his manner, almost sullen, and quick to anger, voice rising from a murmur to a shout in moments, his face porcelain one minute, fiery red with fury the next. Usually he will go days, even weeks, in his very good moods, but then something will happen, something will turn, and for a day or two at a time he will be venomous, suspicious, mocking anyone and everyone, from Lord Tywin to the humblest supplicant at the foot of the throne. 

Gareth is relieved that today the king seems to be in a good mood, and he can tell that Lord Steffon is as well, because when his royal cousin spits and hisses, Stannis’ father always tenses up in his seat, brow furrowed, dark eyes clouded over with something like regret. In their youth, Lord Steffon and the King and Lord Tywin were all great friends. Gareth does not know if the same can be said now, though Steffon and Tywin are always polite with one another, inquiring civilly after their households and children, and the king usually seems very pleased to see his cousin, embracing him at times like a brother, or praising him to no end, while Lord Tywin looks on, green eyes cold as ice. 

As court fills up, Lord Tywin rises from his seat and proclaims the session begun, and various lords and ladies make their ways down, escorted by guards, to the foot of the throne to make their appeals or beg some favor from the king. Gareth is supposed to be studying them closely, but after two hours of sparring (and fighting), he’s finding it difficult not to nod off. 

Attendants are serving wine and juice; Lord Steffon doesn’t let them drink wine during court- not that Stannis would want to, he refuses to touch it- so Gareth swills cold mulberry juice instead, and chews on grapes and biscuits. He offers some to Stannis, who gives him a dirty look as if Gareth had just licked them, and turns back to the throne. 

Gareth is on his last grape when the messenger from Duskendale approaches the throne. Truth be told, Gareth is terrible at keeping colors and arms straight; he can barely recall all the houses native to the Stormlands, never mind the rest of Westeros. So he’s proud of himself for recognizing the colors of House Darklyn as the messenger, a beardless young man who looks no older than twenty, approaches the Iron Throne decked out in bright red and yellow.

“You may speak,” Lord Tywin says; he sounds tired, and like he’s very much ready for today’s session to be over with; the Darklyn messenger seems like the last of them. Gareth can commiserate; he wants to change out of these stuffy clothes and take another bath, this time a cold one. He glances around, restless, and catches sight of Richard Lonmouth’s distinctive red hair as he sits with his family nearby. As if he felt his gaze, Richard turns and catches Gareth’s eye. He doesn’t grin, but one corner of his sly mouth tugs up.

Gareth quickly looks away, throat tightened in embarrassment. 

The messenger from House Darklyn is reading off what looks to be a very lengthy missive; his voice rises and falls and he’s not very loud, so it’s hard to hear him over the constant dull drone of background whispers and murmurs in the gallery. Gareth only knows something is wrong by the sudden look Lord Tywin gets; he straightens in his seat, rigid, and his bored look turns into an incredulous scowl, bushy blonde eyebrows knitted together like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. 

The king himself is just staring down at the messenger in disbelief, while the members of the Small Council erupt into angry chatter and exclamations. Gareth glances over at Queen Rhaella and Prince Rhaegar; the queen looks disturbed, face drawn and even paler than usual; she is whispering furiously with Princess Loreza Martell, who they say has been popping in and out of court for years seeking Rhaegar’s hand for her only daughter. Rhaegar looks troubled, but that’s not that different from his usual expression; he always looks troubled over something; Gareth can count the number of times he’s seen the prince break into a genuinely pleased or amused smile on one hand. 

“This is outrageous,” one of the Small Council lords, Staunton, is barking. “Your Grace, we must clap this man in irons-,”

“Silence,” says King Aerys, though not as angrily as Gareth expected; his voice sounds high and lilting, as if he were almost bemused. 

“What’s going on?” he whispers to Stannis.

“Be quiet,” Stannis unhelpfully whispers back. 

To audible shock, the king rises from the throne. The galleries convulse with murmurs and wide-eyed stares.

“Do I understand you entirely?” King Aerys challenges the Darklyn messenger. “Your lord wishes to inform he will no longer pay his taxes to the Iron Throne?”

“Y-yes, Your Grace,” the messenger has to raise his voice to be heard. “But it is not out of ill will or discontent with your rule, Your Grace-,”

“One questions how else it might be interpreted,” Lord Tywin drawls, but the king sends him a sharp glance, and Lord Tywin says no more, lips pressed together in displeasure. 

“But out of desire to express my lord, Denys Darklyn’s, displeasure and dismay with some of your advisors!” the messenger cries. “He names them snakes and rodents, who seek to use for their own selfish gain! But he knows- Your Grace, my lord knows, that if you and he could but discuss this in person, you would hear his concerns and advise him well and justly! He thinks everything of your wisdom and benevolence, Your Grace… but little of some who have your ear.”

Even Gareth can’t miss the look the messenger tosses at Lord Tywin, who stops glaring and goes very, very still. It reminds Gareth of a snake poised to strike, even though the Lannister sigil is a lion. 

All eyes turn to Aerys, anticipating a backlash, a roar of fury, but instead, the king smiles, calmly, proudly, as if- well, as if he almost agreed. 

“Lord Denys presumes greatly upon my patience and good will,” Aerys says, sitting back down on the throne. “Yet he may not be entirely misinformed. Does he truly wish to speak to me, and me alone?”

“No,” Lord Steffon mutters under his breath; Gareth glances over to see him scowling, an unfamiliar sight. Stannis looks alarmed as well. 

“He does, most ardently,” the messenger says. “He would pay you every courtesy, every comfort, if you would but return with me to Duskendale, Your Grace, where he would show you the beauty and splendor of our town, and how it might be even greater by your patronage, your investment-,”

“Your Grace-,”

“Then I must go,” Aerys says, ignoring the protests of his Small Council and the chilling look on Lord Tywin’s face. “Do not fear, I will not tarry long. I will be ready on the morrow to depart.”

“Your Grace, this is unwise-,” Lord Tywin erupts, but Aerys carries on as if he had not heard him at all. 

“Ser Gwayne Gaunt of my Kingsguard and six leal knights of his choosing shall accompany me,” the king announces, as the throne room buzzes and crackles with shocked conversations at all corners. “We will accompany you back to Duskendale, boy, and settle this matter man to man, your lord and I.”

Glancing around at the squabbles and disturbance, he seems all the more pleased, and adds, sharply, “That is all! Court is dismissed for the day, by my command.”

Gareth watches as Aerys begins to descend from the throne; Lord Tywin is standing up already, his hands almost in fists at his sides, looking like Stannis does when infuriated. The Small Council looks as if they all just swallowed lemons. Queen Rhaella has turned her face away, and Rhaegar is staring down at his father’s distant figure leaving the throne behind, expression inscrutable. 

“What does this mean?” Gareth finally asks, as people begin to stand. 

“I don’t know,” Lord Steffon says, honestly. “If His Grace insists on going with so small an escort, I cannot rightly- bah, this is folly.” He seems to cut himself off, glancing between Stannis and Gareth’s upturned faces. “Don’t trouble yourselves over it. It’s for us old men to dither over. You should be enjoying your time here.”

As he straightens his cloak, he adds, “And you shall tonight, Gareth- you’ve received a dinner invitation, Lord Lonmouth wishes you to dine with his family. Says you made quite the impression on his son during training today.”

Gareth feels as if he were just socked in the gut. It suddenly occurs to him that if Richard decided to take their fight personally, he could be in an awful lot of trouble over it, Lord Steffon's protection or not. The Lonmouths are marcher lords, and a far more powerful house than his own. “But what about you and Stannis, my lord?” he finally asks, weakly.

“Ah, we’ll be dining with my dear cousin the Queen, tonight,” Lord Steffon sounds as if he just decided that. “I could always make her laugh, and I fear she’ll be in dire need of some amusement, after today’s stress.”

Gareth glances at Stannis, who waits until his father has turned away to say, quietly, “Try not to throw any food at Richard Lonmouth at your dinner. Wouldn’t want to make a bad impression.”

“Oh, very funny,” Gareth grumbles; he would ordinarily be pleased to have extricated the odd sarcastic comment from his best friend, but now seems like a very unfortunate time for Stannis to display a sense of humor. “Who taught you to jape?”

Stannis just raises a dark eyebrow. 

“Well, I thank myself!”

As with any prominent lords, the Lonmouths have been afforded rooms in Maegor’s Holdfast, the inner sanctum of the Red Keep, so Gareth does not have very far to walk as he is escorted by one of Lord Philip Lonmouth’s pages. 

Gareth should know more of the Lonmouths, but all he can recall is that their seat is called Skull’s Mouth and near Blackhaven, where the Dornish Marches begin, up in the mountains, and that their house words are a suitably mocking, The Choice is Yours. Gareth supposes the ‘choice’ they are referring to is whether you want to live or not. 

He still thinks his family has better words; All of Us Honorable just sounds more, well, loyal and honorable. Lots of more important houses have far worse words. Look at the Starks. Winter is Coming? Seems a bit obvious, if you ask Gareth. Fire and Blood? Not very creative. Hear Me Roar? It’s not as if lions squeak. 

All of Us Honorable means every Rogers is as good as their word, that there are no weak links or black sheep; all of them are good as gold. Or something like that, Maester Blaise probably said something like that, he doesn’t remember. 

Unlike his brother Julian, or even Stannis, he’s never had much interest in history. Or his lessons in general. Maesters have always sighed over his handwriting, and every attempt to even begin teaching him algebra has been something of a colossal failure. Father says he can multiple, divide, and read aloud without stumbling over his words or forgetting what he’s saying, and that’s good enough, so long as he can also hold a map the right way up. 

Besides, Mother says not everyone is for book learning; his grandfather Rodrik Stark certainly wasn’t. And that’s what maesters are for, anyways, to help their lords with these things. Gareth rather hopes Maester Blaise is still around when he becomes Lord of Amberly, because as much as he exasperates the man, he knows Blaise would still steer him in the right direction. 

The Lonmouths reside in lavishly outfitted rooms overlooking the gardens, specifically the queen’s garden, because Lady Alicent, Lord Philip’s wife, is one of Queen Rhaella’s handmaidens, along with her daughters, Jocelyn and Laena. Gareth learns all of this through the page's unending chatter, and is still trying to keep track of what the boy is rambling on about as they enter the dining room. 

The Lonmouths don’t stand on occasion; they know very well he’s just a Rogers, but then again, his mother is a Stark, so there is still some interest in their eyes. They all have the same carroty hair as Richard, save for the mother, who is a sandy blonde Penrose by birth. Gareth knows that much; the Penroses are all blonde and gawky and bookish, or so his grandmother claims, and he could believe it of Lady Alicent, who seems, a shrewd, squinty kind of woman who probably does spend all her time reading and writing very important letters. 

“There he is,” Lord Philip says, in a voice that makes it impossible to tell whether he’s serious or pulling Gareth’s leg, “the heir to Amberly himself. Come join us, lad, you are most welcome here.”

Gareth remembers his courtesies, though his stomach is growling like a shadowcat, and bows his head politely. “Thank you for inviting me to your table, Lord Lonmouth. It’s very kind of you.”

Richard guffaws at that, but quiets at a dirty look from one of his sisters; the elder seems around seventeen or eighteen, her red hair parted perfectly down the middle and in a long plait, the younger perhaps Flora’s age, ten or eleven; her hair has more of a curl to it and bounces around her skinny shoulders. 

“Richard tells us you were brave as a bull in the training yard,” Lady Alicent says, as Gareth takes the seat pulled out for him by a servant. “I must say, my lord and I were very impressed- Richard’s a slippery one, it’s not everyday he’s bested.”

Gareth glances at Richard, who is innocently sipping his drink, then decides the Lonmouths probably heard a far more watered down version of what happened today. “It was a good fight,” he says. “Richard’s light on his feet.”

“Isn’t he?” Lord Philip ruffles his son’s hair affectionately; Gareth grins as Richard flushes at his father’s show of affection. “He’ll be a proper knight before long, and knighted by the Prince himself. We can still scarcely believe the honor.”

“To serve the future king is no small matter,” Lady Alicent agrees, and shoots a look at her elder daughter. Gareth is entirely baffled by that; it’s not like a girl can become a knight. 

“That must be very exciting,” he says, instead, as the first course is brought out. It’s some kind of barley broth with sops to soak it up in. Gareth wishes they weren’t having soup when it was already so hot out, but he’s never been one to turn down food, and besides, it would be impolite. “Serving as Prince Rhaegar’s squire, I mean,” he adds, as he tears into the bread.

“It is,” says Richard, proudly. “Myles and I go everywhere with him. To tourneys and on the road- I’ve even been to Dragonstone,” he brags, as his parents look on proudly, and his sisters roll their eyes. “It’s like something out of a legend- stone monsters everywhere, and when the fogs roll in from the mountains you can’t see more than a few feet ahead, and the sands on the beaches are so dark a grey that at night they look black.”

That sounds terrifying, if Gareth is being honest, but he’s not about to admit that. 

“The Prince is a fine knight,” Lord Philip says, “the height of chivalry. A shame he has not had more opportunity to demonstrate it- I always say a war is a fine thing for a young man, teaches him how to make a lord’s justice, how to fight with honor- the training yard can scarcely compare.”

His wife looks less enthused, and says something in a low voice to him. All Gareth hears is ‘Duskendale’, and he realizes that maybe Lady Alicent doesn’t like her husband going on about how wonderful war is when the Darklyns have just rebelled. 

Because it is rebellion, isn’t it, when you won’t pay your taxes? Gareth doesn’t know as much about taxes as he should, though he’s been around with his father to collect them a few times, and seen them sent off to King’s Landing, what they owe to the Iron Throne. 

He can’t imagine Amberly just up and refusing to pay them, like Duskendale, but Duskendale is probably thrice the size of Amberly, a proper port, not just a sleepy seaside town. 

“You could serve as a squire to Prince Rhaegar someday too,” Richard tells Gareth; to Gareth’s surprise Richard doesn’t sound arrogant, or lofty, but genuinely enthusiastic. “You and Stannis Baratheon. They’re cousins, aren’t they?”

“They are,” Lord Philip answers, before Gareth can get a word in edgewise, as he finishes off his thin soup, scalding his tongue. “And that is why we are so relieved for Lord Steffon’s presence here. If the king is to leave on the morrow… It will be good for his kin to be close by.”

Gareth just stares over his spoon at the Lonmouths, before it slowly occurs to him that maybe the reason they asked him to dinner was not out of idle amusement, but because he is Lord Baratheon’s ward, and they want to get in with Lord Steffon, in case- in case something happens to the King.

“Lord Steffon wants to return to Storm’s End soon,” he says instead, setting down his spoon. “His lady mother- Prince Rhaelle has been doing poorly, and he doesn’t like to leave her and Lady Cassana alone.”

“Of course not,” Lady Alicent says, as servings of seasoned mutton are brought out. “Doubtless he does. Still, his presence can only be a boon to the queen, and the prince. Lord Tywin is an able Hand, no doubt, but he is not the most… comforting of men.” One corner of her mouth twitches up in a dry smirk.

“No,” says Gareth, as he cuts into his meat. “No, he’s not.”

The rest of the meal more or less proceeds along those lines. The Lonmouths ask little and less about Gareth or his family, and more and more about Lord Steffon and his plans. Gareth is relieved he doesn’t know much; he’s a terrible liar. They seem a bit dismayed as time goes on, realizing he isn’t exactly a font of information about their liege lord and his politics, but remain civil nevertheless, and after the last course, a strawberry tart, Lady Alicent suggests that he and Richard go for a walk in the gardens to stretch their legs.

Gareth is relieved to be free of the hot room, tugging at his collar as he follows Richard downstairs; Richard is bold, and brings a mug of cold summer ale with him, which he offers to Gareth, who refuses. 

“Suit yourself,” Richard mutters under his breath as they step out into the sunset evening. The gardens are beautiful in the fading light, the green leaves lent a golden tint, and the sweet smell of flowers wafting through the muggy air. 

“Sorry about them,” Richard says, as they set off on a gravel-lined path, passing under a rose trellis in full white bloom. “They’re very…”

“Nosy?” Gareth suggests. 

Richard bursts out laughing, surprising him. “You don’t know how to hold your tongue, do you, Rogers?”

“Fine talk coming from you,” Gareth mutters. “You goaded me into that fight today.”

Richard shrugs. “What if I did? I wanted to see if you were as dull as you look.”

Gareth flares, but years of arguing with Julian have left him prepared. “I’d rather look dull as a stone than like an overgrown carrot, Lonmouth.”

Richard looks at him sideways, then laughs again, and this time, Gareth can’t help but snicker as well; Richard might be cocky and smug, but he has an infectious, ringing laugh, almost musical. He must have a fine singing voice. Gareth can carry a tune alright, but the real musical talent in his family is Flora, who plays so many instruments now that he can’t keep track of them anymore. 

“It wasn’t my idea to invite you,” Richard says. “They just overheard Myles talking and thought it would be a good idea.”

“What do they want with Lord Steffon?” Gareth asks curiously.

Richard studies him for a moment, the light casting shadows on his face, then says, “They want to know whose side he’s on.”

“There’s sides?” Gareth wrinkles his nose.

Richard smirks. “You’ve just figured that out? Come on, Rogers. You’re for Tywin, or you’re for the King, and if you’re for the King, then you’re really for Rhaegar.”

“But Lord Tywin serves the King,” Gareth points out, as they stop besides a burbling fountain. 

“So he does,” says Richard. “Very well. Almost too well.” He frowns as Gareth opens his mouth again. “Oh, don’t expect a lecture on it, you must know there’s spies everywhere. All I’m saying is, when the dragon flies away…”

“The villagers cheer?” Gareth suggests.

Richard laughs again at that, and finishes off his ale. “Right. They cheer.” He takes a step closer.

Gareth almost shies away, then thinks better of it. Richard is close enough that he can see right into the depths of his green eyes. They remind Gareth of the Rainwood; there’s something liquid about them, like pools in a forest.

“There’s still a little left,” Richard thrusts the cup at him.

Gareth blinks, takes it, and downs no more than a sip. “Liar,” he says, when he’s done. “That was barely anything.”

“Then have this,” and Richard Lonmouth, of all people, kisses him on the cheek, almost sweetly, like Julian would on his name day. Only it does not feel like a brother’s affectionate kiss to Gareth, not at all. 

Richard steps back, and Gareth blinks, then hands him back the cup. “Race you to the next fountain,” he says, for want of what else to say.

“Are you serious-,”

Gareth takes off running, gravel crunching underfoot; Richard yelps behind him, than follows, tossing the cup down as they vanish into the hedgerows. 

A week after His Grace departs, there’s another messenger from Duskendale; a wounded knight from the King’s small party, accompanied by the corpse of Ser Gwayne Gaunt, and a very different letter from the Darklyns, who still want a charter, and if they can’t have one, they’ll keep Aerys as their ‘honored guest’ in one of their own black cells.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes:
> 
> 1\. This chapter takes place some months after the Tourney at Lannisport. Instead of returning to Storm's End, the Baratheons accompanied the royal family back to court at Aerys' request. This raised eyebrows as many are beginning to suspect Aerys and Tywin are estranged, and that Aerys is going to dismiss Tywin as Hand and replace him with his loyal cousin. 
> 
> 2\. Gareth and Stannis are both about 14, as is Richard Lonmouth, and Myles Mooton is two years younger. Richard is from a native Stormlands family, while Myles is from Maidenpool. Both have been squires alongside (and then of) Rhaegar for some time now, and both of their families relish the opportunity to ride on Rhaegar's coattails, believing they will be ascend to the highest echelon of courtiers once Rhaegar succeeds his father as king. Richard Lonmouth will grow into the man who is referenced as the Knight of Skulls and Kisses in the famous story about Harrenhal. 
> 
> 3\. Gareth is ultimately a pretty mellow character, but he likes to fight. Part of this is teenaged hormones and adrenaline rush, the other part of it is that he's much bigger than most boys his age and is used to winning wrestling matches and brawls. And another part of it is that he is just a very physical person and would rather settle a matter with his fists than with a debate. He's also been raised in a culture that praises violence, especially in the context of knighthood. On the plus side, he's not good at holding grudges, so once he's done fighting, he's willing to just laugh it off. 
> 
> 4\. Aerys is not considered a 'mad king' at this point in time, but it is well known among the courtiers that his moods can and will change on a dime. Depending on when you talk to him, he can be extremely generous and merciful, or the exact opposite. He is also known to be currently on the outs with Tywin, after Aerys rejected Tywin's offer of Cersei as a bride for Rhaegar. Tywin is obviously still furious over this six months later, and Aerys can be quite spiteful and contrary towards his own Hand when the mood strikes him.
> 
> 5\. Duskendale is ruled by the charismatic young Lord Denys Darklyn. Denys wants a charter. Tywin said no. Denys has decided to take a massive risk and try to play to Aerys' ill will towards Tywin (as well as refusing to pay his taxes to goad the King into coming himself to sort this matter out). 
> 
> 6\. The house words of House Rogers are a reference to a quote from The Chronicles of Amber, a quote which is itself a reference to Shakespeare's Julius Caesar- "Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest–/For Brutus is an honourable man;/So are they all, all honourable men–/Come I to speak in Caesar’s funeral." from the famous 'Friends, Romans, countrymen' speech after Caesar's murder. Gareth obviously takes the house words very literally, whereas in Julius Caesar they clearly have a much darker tinge. 
> 
> 7\. The Lonmouths boast very distant Targaryen blood through Richard's mother, who is a Penrose by birth, and are clearly hoping Rhaegar will take an interest in one of their daughters. 
> 
> 8\. We often project modern conceptions of masculinity and sexuality back onto the past. In medieval times it was not considered odd or suggestive for men to be openly physically affectionate with one another. The king would share his bed with other men who were trusted confidantes, as would the queen with her ladies, noblemen would embrace and kiss one another in greetings and forgiveness. All that said, Gareth is not projecting when he notes that Richard's kiss didn't seem very platonic. They are clearly attracted to one another. 
> 
> 9\. The next chapter will cover the Defiance of Duskendale and will bump the rating of this fic up to M for disturbing scenes of death and violence. Just a forewarning.


	8. Gareth III

KING’S LANDING, 277 AC

Truthfully, Gareth had expected vigorous bouts of sparring and thrilling adventures in the Kingswood, when he came to court, as opposed to sitting around with a bunch of ladies. But when one is invited to lunch with a queen and a princess and their ladies, it’s generally considered rude to refuse, so it’s not as if he had much choice. 

That said, it’s not so terrible, he reflects, as he polishes off another lemon cake. Queen Rhaella has kept the same apartments since girlhood, refusing to move into the rooms formerly afforded to her mother, Shiera, or her grandmother, Betha, who is also a distant relation via marriage of Gareth’s, because his mother’s great-aunt Melantha Blackwood (who Mother called Grandmother) wed Willam Stark, who was Mother’s uncle, and together they had Edwyle, and he sired Rickard, who is the father of Gareth’s Stark cousins. 

All that to say, family trees are very confusing and this is why he’s not much good at them. 

Queen Rhaella’s rooms are perhaps slightly smaller and less grand than would be expected of a queen consort as a result, but Gareth doesn’t mind. They overlook the gardens and are near the Lonmouths’ residence, which means he sees a good deal of Richard, and an even greater deal, at least at present, of Richard’s sisters, Jocelyn and Laena, who are in service to Rhaella alongside their mouth Alicent. 

Richard swears (Richard swears often) that his parents are scheming (his words, not Gareth’s) to eventually negotiate a betrothal between Prince Rhaegar and Jocelyn (“or Laena,” Richard had shrugged, “whichever he prefers, Father and Mother aren’t picky"), with their justification that the Penroses have made royal matches before, and do have some Targaryen blood in them. 

Gareth innocently repeated that to Stannis, who told his father, and Lord Steffon says plenty of noble houses have ‘some’ Targaryen blood in them, as there was once many, many Targaryens, all running about here and there, spilling their seed and having children both trueborn and bastard and getting married and having affairs and generally, it would seem, enjoying themselves. 

Whatever the past may have been like for the Targaryens, the present cannot be said to be very joyous. Aerys has been held prisoner by the Darklyns for six moons now, and the realm is in an uproar. It’s as if a strange and alarming mummer’s show had set up shop here; there are constant new faces popping up around court, all demanding to speak to either Lord Tywin, Queen Rhaella, or Prince Rhaegar, all wanting to know what is going on and what is going to happen.

The Darklyns are attainted traitors now, but it doesn’t do much good if no one can lay a finger on them. Is Lord Tywin going to siege the town? With what men? Is he marching goldcloaks out of the city? Is he hiring sellswords? Is he summoning the banners of the Crownlands to prove their loyalty? They are all very eager. It seems like every other noble house from the region is regularly here, swearing they knew nothing of Denys Darklyn’s plans and that they are eager to see him laid low for his villainy. 

What about Prince Rhaegar? Is he going to lead a bold mission to rescue his father? Lord Velaryon is offering ships. Everyone is offering ships. How big is the Darklyn fleet? Who helped build that fleet, anyways? Can they blockade their port and starve them out? How full are their stores in high summer? Is Lord Tywin going to set the town alight? Will he ram the gates? Does he need machinery? All the guilds want to know if he needs machinery, or weapons, or new armor. 

Who is being named to the Kingsguard to replace Ser Gwayne? Can Lord Darklyn be challenged to single combat, like in the olden days? They say Lord Darklyn is bewitched and this is all the work of his foul foreign wife, Serala of Myr. They say her womb is barren and so she conceives wicked enchantments instead. They say she has the Darklyns under her thumb and they all dance at her command and she is torturing King Aerys every night with her wicked magic, though no one can say quite what that might be, really. 

Is King Aerys dead? Is he dead and the court is simply keeping it hushed up? Everyone keeps asking Lord Steffon that. If he is already dead, than Rhaegar is King. Perhaps they should just declare Rhaegar King right now. Surely he will want a new Small Council and a new Hand, and everyone has so many recommendations; themselves, their brothers, their sons. And surely he will be wanting a wife. In fact, Prince Rhaegar should marry now, just in case. He should marry immediately and sire a son on his wife. 

Gareth studies Princess Loreza as he finishes off his lemon cake, wondering. Everyone whispers that she is here at court and will not leave until a betrothal between Rhaegar and her daughter, Princess Elia, is agreed upon. Gareth has heard his fair share of ill talk about Dornishmen; the Rogerses are not marcher lords, but know plenty of them, and the Lonmouths can’t stand Princess Loreza, he knows that much from Richard. 

But he really does not see what the fuss is about; Princess Loreza doesn’t seem very sinister or scheming to him. She is a tall, slender, graceful woman with olive-toned skin and a sharp nose. Her widow’s peak is very prominent against her high brow. Gareth isn’t sure how old she is, but she is old enough to have three grown children, so she must be nearing fifty. 

Despite this, it does not seem to show on her face, except in the lines around her dark eyes and mouth. “She’s got viper eyes,” Richard once told him, seeming to relish in the description. 

To Gareth, they seem more like hawk eyes; as if she were swooping overhead in a rush of wings, watching them all scurry about far below. They remind him of Leona, though the Martell princess looks like nothing like his fair-haired, blue-eyed cousin. But Leona has hawkish eyes too, that sort of penetrating, unflinching gaze, and when she narrows them at you, you feel like a startled rabbit, caught in the brush, unable to dodge out of the way in time. 

Princess Loreza is not narrowing her eyes at anyone right now. She is chatting gaily with the Queen and Princess Rhaelle, who came here shortly after word arrived of the King’s capture, along with Lady Cassana, who could not stand to be parted from her husband any longer. 

The proof of that is very obvious; in the past six months, Lady Cassana’s belly has swelled until it is obvious even through her modest, heavily layered clothes that she is getting heavy with child. The Baratheons are very open about this sort of thing, much like Gareth’s own family, and Lord Steffon dearly hopes it will be a girl, so they can name her after his mother, who is dying. 

Gareth knows Princess Rhaelle is dying because she sometimes coughs up blood and never shows her hair because it is starting to dry and fall out to reveal the sheen of her scalp. But she is well enough still, some days, to sit up and eat, and she does so now, blanketed by a heavy robe even though it is very, very warm in these rooms. She sits right beside her niece, the Queen, her hand resting on the younger woman’s elbow.

Prince Viserys is in his mother’s lap; like most children his age, he never seems to leave it. He takes notice of Gareth staring and looks like he might begin to cry; he cries a lot. Gareth supposes he has a lot to weep about, at present, with his father a prisoner, the court in chaos, and the realm uneasy about where power truly lies- with Lord Tywin, with the various eager courtiers, or with Prince Rhaegar, who is not here.

He is gone off to Summerhall with Myles Mooton; the Conningtons arrived a few weeks ago and were very annoyed to have missed him. Gareth tried to make conversation with Jon, who is again a relation of sort by marriage, since Jon’s uncle is wed to Gareth’s aunt, but Jon Connington is one of those boys of sixteen who acts like you’re the most inane little baby if you’re more than a year younger than him, and Gareth only has so much patience. 

Jon is also a squire to Prince Rhaegar, though he’s almost of age to make knighthood, and while he is much less insufferable about it than Richard or Myles, has very little interest in discussing much other than the weather with Gareth or Stannis. 

To quell Viserys from bursting into a toddler’s tears, Gareth grabs the honey stick from the jar in front of Stannis, and offers it to the little prince. Viserys takes it ponderously, the self-important way all babies do, and then shoves it in his mouth, gumming up. 

“Infants shouldn’t have honey,” Stannis tells him reprovingly. Suddenly he is a learned scholar on all things to do with young children, just because he’s going to finally be an older brother. Gareth would take it more seriously if Stannis actually liked children. He doesn’t. Stannis doesn’t like noise, mess, or drunks, and babies and toddlers are more or less all three mixed up together. 

“He’s not a baby, he’s over a year old now,” Gareth says, riled at the insinuation that he’s an irresponsible caretaker. He’s the oldest of five children, he should think he knows how to handle them. Gareth has always liked children. 

Little brothers and sisters are easy; you hug them and tickle them and throw them up in the air and catch them. You read them stories and give voices to their toys, and you let them ride on your shoulders and pull your hair. You lead their pony around the paddock and you lie to get them out of trouble every once in a while, but not always or they take you for granted. Sometimes he thinks he’s spent more time around Mother with child than without child.

Stannis gives a haughty look of ‘I shan’t debate the matter with you’, and returns to his custard. 

“You’d best pray it’s another boy,” Gareth tells him. “I don’t think you could handle a little sister.”

Now he’s just starting trouble, but he can’t resist. Stannis’ shoulders tighten. “I could so.”

“No you couldn’t. You can’t even talk to them.”

“Talk to who?” Stannis grumbles, before taking another spoonful of custard. It’s the only sweet thing he’ll eat, and even then, it’s lemon, so it’s not that sweet. 

“Girls,” Gareth whispers.

Stannis tenses, as if he’d whispered, “Dragons.”

“I can talk to whomever I please,” Stannis says curtly. “Just because I don’t care to hear about needlework and dresses and dancing-,”

“I wish that was all they talked about,” Gareth snorts. “Oh, you’re in for it now. Little sisters are like demons from the seventh hell. They’ll pick you open like an oyster and then,” he mimes chucking something across the room. “You’re terrified of Flora.”

“I am not terrified of your sister,” Stannis mutters, though he reddens.

“Yes you are. You skirt around her like a wild animal, and Leona too, when we visited Amberly-,”

“If I skirt,” Stannis snaps, “it’s because Florence is uncouth and frivolous, and your cousin Mistress Storm is a bastard daughter. She should want no part in idle conversation with highborn men.”

Gareth scowls, genuinely irritated. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Florence?”

“Leona! You- you make it out like there’s something wrong with her.” 

But Gareth knows what he is referring to. Rules that say bastard daughters are a temptation to well born young men and should spend their time in prayer and solitude to avoid being led to lives of vice and sin, like their mothers. They’re not rules that are written down, but loads of rules aren’t written down or talked about. It doesn’t mean they’re not real. 

“And she is not your sister, much as you insist on acting like it. She was born out of wedlock to your uncle and a common woman.” Stannis gets the same look on his face that he does whenever the topic of brothels or whores are brought up. 

Well, Leona’s mother wasn’t a whore, Father said as much, she’s Moira who runs the Golden Horn with her husband Daven. She might not be a lady, but she’s not a whore, either. 

“She’s my kin,” says Gareth, scowling. “And it’s not for you to talk about her like that. She’s a good girl and she’s a good friend.”

Stannis looks at him incredulously, then seems to give up. Their conversation is cut off anyways by the Queen, who clears her throat, smiling in a slightly pained, uncomfortable manner. Many of her smiles are pained and uncomfortable, Gareth thinks, and he doesn’t think it’s just because her husband is in danger. 

Truthfully, he doesn’t think the King and Queen love each other very much, or if they ever did, they don’t anymore. Aerys has no mistress and does not frequent brothels for fear of disease, like many noblemen, but Gareth is not so blind nor deaf that he doesn’t hear things, even if they are mostly whispered conversations between servants. 

Gareth isn’t a child; he knows what happens between a husband and wife, and what often happens between those who aren’t married, too. But what happens between King Aerys and Queen Rhaella does not sound anything at all like what his own parents share; there is no holding hands under the dinner table or resting their heads on one another’s shoulders. 

When his father comes into a room and sees his mother he always goes right over to kiss her, no matter if he has been around her all day. And his mother’s smiles are never forced or uncomfortable in her husband’s presence; if anything, Mother seems more comfortable when he is close by. The same could be said for Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana, and many other married couples Gareth knows. Just not the royal one. 

“Lady Jocelyn,” Rhaella says now, straightening in her seat, and extricating the honey from Viserys, before handing him off to one of her other ladies, a Staunton. “Your mother tells me your talent with a harp is ever-improving, and I know we should all greatly like to hear you play. Something happy, I think?” 

She wears no crown most of the time, the Queen, but Gareth cannot deny there is something regal about her bearing, and her lilac eyes are much paler than her elder son and husband’s; they seem to soak up the golden light streaming in through her solar’s gossamer curtains. 

“It would be my honor, Your Grace,” Jocelyn says eagerly. 

Gareth doesn’t mind Jocelyn; Richard’s sisters are much less arrogant than him, maybe because they are girls or maybe because someone has to balance their brother out, but she is very stiff, almost like a statue that just learned to walk and escape its pedestal, and very careful of her appearance, always rearranging her skirts or fussing with her carroty red hair. He supposes she is pretty, though, even with her face pinched in concentration as she begins to pluck delicately at her harp. 

The conversation dies down as everyone listens appreciatively; Gareth doesn’t have much interest in music and can only remember the lyrics to a few songs and hymns, but he’s grown up hearing it, constantly- Flora is obsessed. And he knows enough to realize that his sister, though she is only ten, is already twice the harper that Jocelyn Penrose is. Jocelyn isn’t bad; far from it. But she plays woodenly, pointedly, out of nerves or pride or embarrassment at all the eyes upon her, and doesn’t even try to sing, just hums a little in tune with her plucking as her freckled hands move across the strings. 

Her harp is a much simpler model than the one Prince Rhaegar plays, which is carved of ghostly white weirwood and has strings of silver and the snarling three heads of the dragon adorning it. Florence is always begging for descriptions of Prince Rhaegar’s harp and the songs he sings and everything about him; what he wears and what he eats and how he speaks and what his favorite songs and stories are. Gareth doesn’t really know the answers to most of that, so sometimes he just makes things up. 

She’s a very strange child, his sister. She says she’ll never marry and that she is going to be a great singer and travel the lands with her troupe and they’ll toast her in every keep, though she’ll only stay a week at each, and they’ll know her voice and music from Sunspear to Winterfell. His parents think it’s funny, but sometimes Gareth thinks she’s serious. She’s a bit old to be pretending she’s a bard. 

He supposes Mother and Father would agree to let her become a septa, perhaps, if that’s what she really wanted, but girls of good birth don’t take up as traveling musicians and leave hearth and home behind. It’s enough of a scandal when men do it, even sons of the most minor lord or knight. It’s one thing to indulge in music and art behind closed doors, another to take it up as a common trade and earn coin from it. 

Grandmother was scandalized beyond belief when Flora started going on about the courtesans of Braavos, who don’t just ‘entertain men’ but read and write poetry, and sing, and dance, and travel through the city streets in caravans of perfume and light. Septa Dybele had her write lines from the Maiden’s Book about prudence and chastity to scold her, but now Flora just tells him or Julian or Leona about it instead, grey eyes wide with wonder. 

“I’d be the Amber Lady,” she’s always saying, a hand on her thin chest, trying to look effortlessly elegant and refined. “And men would fight just to hear me sing, like with swords,” she’d pick up a broomstick and jab it about the air, “and merchant princes and pirates would sit beside me at feasts and beg me to come away with them and be their wife but I never would, never, and when I died they’d drape the streets in black silk and toss out roses for the horses to walk on while they carried me to my bier-,”

“And then you’d be singing in the seventh heaven, is that it?” Julian would snort, and give her a pinch, and Flora would stop pretending to be the alluring, renowned Amber Lady of a Thousand Songs, and jump on his skinny back and pull his hair and stick her fingers in his ears, shrieking. 

When the music ends everyone claps politely, though Gareth is bored out of his skull, and Princess Rhaelle looks as though she’s nodding off. Lady Cassana leans over to gently nudge her godmother, then stops as one of the servants admits Maester Cressen, who came here to continue tending to the ailing princess. They say she has weeks left to live, but Gareth tries not to think about that. 

Stannis isn’t very good at showing it, but he is very attached to his grandmother, and it won’t be easy on him when she passes away. Stannis might seem unfeeling, but by now Gareth has known him long enough to know that Stannis feels everything, very deeply, and just stifles it all down until it erupts, like a volcano. They might argue frequently, and complain about one another, but he doesn’t want to see his best friend grieving. 

But Maester Cressen isn’t here to check on Rhaelle; he is whispering something to Lady Cassana instead, looking grave. Gareth tenses, as does Stannis beside him, dark eyes narrowed. Is it the King? But why would Maester Cressen be telling Lady Cassana before the Queen even knew? 

Cassana sees them staring at her, and waves Cressen away. She whispers something to her goodmother, then gathers her skirts and stands, quietly making her way over to them as Jocelyn begins another song. If the Queen notices, she gives no sign of it, though Lady Alicent is staring at him, scrutinizing down the length of her long, speckly nose. 

“Gareth,” Lady Cassana says, a hand at her belly. “I need some air, will you walk with me outside for a turn or two?”

Stannis bristles; “Mother, I can take you,” he protests sharply; since the pregnancy was announced Stannis has been very worried about his mother. 

“No, it will do Gareth good, he’s hot,” Lady Cassana says firmly, feeling at Gareth’s forehead. 

He’s warm, but not flushed; he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but he rises obediently from his seat and offers his arm to his foster mother like a proper lordling. 

Stannis doesn’t quite glare, but reluctantly turns his attention back to the music, shifting in his seat. 

Outside some birds are chirping in a pear tree, and he can hear children playing through the hedgerows. The inside of the Red Keep might be tense as a battlefield these days, but in the gardens it is still high summer, and lazy clouds float by overhead, the soft breeze rustling in the fresh green leaves. 

“Gareth,” Lady Cassana says, not sounding much like herself at all. “I have to tell you there’s been word from Winterfell. Your family at Amberly may already know; I can’t be sure.”

Gareth’s heart sinks. “What is it?” he asks, suddenly feeling that he sounds very young and small, though he is as tall as her. “Is it- has something happened to Julian?”

“No,” says Cassana, taking his hand in her own, though his is already larger than hers. She gives him a sympathetic look. “It’s Lady Lyarra. She… I’m afraid there was an accident, while she was out riding. She suffered a bad fall and she… she did not recover.”

The words land like a dull punch in his gut. Gareth just stares for a moment, trying to reconcile this blunt truth with the memories of his aunt, already fading, from just two years before, when they visited Winterfell. How odd it was to see her, like a warped mirror image of his Mother, both alike and not alike at all. He thinks of his uncle, who seemed so stern and distant compared to his own father, and his boisterous cousins. Does Ned know already, high up in the Vale? Has the raven reached him yet?

Dark wings, dark words. 

“I- I’d like to walk alone,” he blurts out, and jerks his arm from her, too stunned to even consider his rudeness. But Lady Cassana does not take offense, only nods and lets him go. 

He walks very quickly at first, gravel crunching underfoot, then turns around wildly, as if lost, though he knows exactly where he is. He changes his mind abruptly and cuts across the gardens, aiming for the gate leading into the godswood, overlooking the rushing river that leads out to the sea. Once inside- the godswood is almost always deserted, though they say when Betha Blackwood was still queen it was very popular, lords and ladies toying with the idea of converting to gain favor with her- he lets himself slow down.

He’s not weeping, but his eyes sting all the same. How can he cry for an aunt he barely knew, who he only met once? But maybe it’s not even about her. If Lady Lyarra, who seemed so vivid, so active and alive, not sickly or frail in the least, could be ripped away so suddenly, who’s to say the same could not happen to his mother, or his father? What if the news had been from Amberly instead? What would he have done, said? 

He doesn’t know, and that frightens him. A death like Princess Rhaelle’s is easier to accept, in a sense; she might not be a very old woman, but she’s seen her son raised and wed, with sons of his own. Everyone knows she is dying; at least there is time to say goodbye. But a death like this- it suddenly occurs to him that anyone can die, at any time. 

He could fall and break his neck tomorrow. Julian could catch a chill in the frigid North and be carried off in the night. Even Flora or Lucas or little Myra could die. Leona could die, and she’s a woman grown now. 

He is still sitting under the shade of the heart tree, which is not even a weirwood but a great golden oak, when he hears footfall, and looks up to see Richard Lonmouth making his way over to him. He walks lightly, leaves crinkling underfoot, and sits down beside Gareth. Usually Richard has something coy or funny to say, but today he doesn’t say anything. Gareth doesn’t know how he heard, but maybe it’s all over the castle by now. The Starks are very far away, but people still take notice when the Warden of the North’s wife dies. 

Gareth sits shoulder to shoulder with Richard, though not quite- Gareth is a head taller than him. After a while, he just rests his hand palm up on his crossed leg, and Richard slips his own into it. It’s warm. The wind rustles in the leaves overhead, and knocks an acorn to the ground. Richard picks it up and puts it in Gareth’s other hand. 

“I miss my home,” Gareth tells him, though he’s not sure why. He and Richard talk and sometimes steal awkward, half-joking kisses, but they don’t usually have serious conversations.

“Tell me about it,” Richard says, squeezing his hand, and then leans against Gareth a little, so that Gareth can smell his hair, and count the freckles on the back of his thin neck. 

So he does. 

He talks and talks, for a long time, hesitantly at first, then with a little more enthusiasm. He describes Amberly as best he can; the smell of the sea and the waves breaking against the beach, the little white-washed town with its three cobbled streets, the rest dirt, the farms dotting the landscape, and the Rainwood, of course, like a kingdom unto itself, where Elenei and the old gods still hold sway. 

The maze, and Ser Ganelon, still lost within it, hacking through the brush, crying for vengeance, and the castle, its rushing aqueduct, the black and white patterned stones that will make you dizzy if you look at them for too long. The illuminated frescos and rich tapestries, the amber accents, his childhood bedroom. The kitchens and the kennels and the small godswood. The household knights and ladies, the feasting hall with its ancient tables and benches, his father’s sword with its amber pommel. His mother, their little dogs, his siblings laughing and running and slamming doors and throwing open windows. 

“I should like to see it,” Richard says, when he trails off. “See if you have been telling true or not.”

Gareth smiles a little in spite of his sadness. “Are you calling me a liar, Lonmouth.”

“You are quick to call me one!”

“That’s because you exaggerate,” Gareth says, fonder than he meant to. Richard does know how to tell a good tall tale, and like all his siblings, Gareth is very sweet on stories, and those who tell them well. 

“That’s how history is made,” Richard retorts. “Men exaggerating small deeds into great ones. Making giants of themselves.”

“You’d have to exaggerate quite a lot to make yourself a giant,” Gareth can’t resist pointing out. 

Richard isn’t that small for his age, but he very obviously hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet, unlike Gareth, who never seems to stop growing, to his occasional dismay. At least now his voice is starting to break deeper, so people no longer scoff and laugh when he talks, and reveals that the boy they took for eighteen is in fact fourteen. 

Richard punches him, lightly, then pushes him over. “Doesn’t take a giant to topple you, does it?” he crows, clambering atop Gareth, who suddenly can’t breathe. 

“Only because I let you,” he manages to say without sound strangled, ignoring the tightness in his throat and somewhere else, then pulls on Richard’s ear; Richard winces and rolls off him; Gareth throws an acorn at him, and they have a proper battle after that, heaving twigs and leaves and acorns at each other, shouting and laughing. 

It’s late afternoon by the time he makes his way back towards his rooms with Richard, who chats gaily all the while, only for them to be stopped at the door by one of Lord Steffon’s guards, who says Gareth is wanted inside immediately. Gareth is perplexed; is this about Aunt Lyarra, has something else happened? Richard seems perturbed, but quickly says goodbye and races off, presumably back to his own family.

Gareth steps inside, and finds Lord Steffon ordering about a few nervous maids and squires, while Stannis sits with Lady Cassana and Princess Rhaelle. They all look over at him when he enters and Gareth awkwardly plucks a stray leaf from his hair. 

“We’re riding for Duskendale at dawn,” Lord Steffon says, much blunter than usual. “The King has been freed.”

Gareth almost thinks he is not serious, then looks at the other Baratheons, and knows he is. Princess Rhaelle is coughing into a kerchief, struggling to clear her throat, while Lady Cassana pours her a cup of water from a pitcher. After she drinks, she says, throatily, “I always knew Barristan had it in him. I remember the tourney when he was knighted. Knocked Duncan flat.” She smiles, grimly. “The Small and the Tall.”

“Where is Ser Barristan?” Gareth asks in confusion.

“Lord Tywin agreed to dispatch him to Duskendale,” Lady Cassana explains. “A last ditch effort. Otherwise the town was to be besieged by the turn of the moon. He swore he could rescue the King alone.”

“And it would seem he has,” Gareth expected Lord Steffon to be overjoyed, but he doesn’t seem relieved, or thrilled, or triumphant. In fact, this is as serious as Gareth has ever seen him, even more so than when it was announced that Aerys was captured. “His Grace has been taken to Rosby, where their maester is treating him. He was ill-used by the Darklyns, I fear.”

Gareth wonders what that means. Is the King maimed in some way? Horribly scarred? 

“We must be there,” Lord Steffon says, “to see justice meted out. Half the court will be vying to get there first to see Duskendale brought low. I must be there. I’ll not mince words, you are not little boys anymore. Stannis, Gareth- you may accompany me, or you may stay here with Cassana and my lady mother. I’ll warn you. It will not-,” he pauses, then says, “It will not be pretty.”

“I’m coming, Father,” Stannis says, firmly. 

Gareth can only nod. “I’m your squire. I have to go with you, my lord.”

“You do not have to,” Steffon says. “But you may come, if you remember to do as I say. This is not going to be a light-hearted courtly affair. You will not go anywhere or speak to anyone without my leave, be they lord or common. The Darklyns are traitors. They are going to meet a traitor’s end. And now is not the time for boys’ games and japes.”

“I’ll obey you, my lord,” Gareth says, earnestly. 

Stannis nods silently, lips pressed together as if to prove how far he can restrain himself. 

Steffon pauses for a moment, as if he regrets even offering to take them in the first place, then sighs. “Pack what you need for the ride. We’ll be going hard and quick so long as the fair weather holds. No inns; you’ll get little sleep and be in the saddle more than you have in weeks, so dress practically.” He stops, then adds, “Stannis, you may carry live steel for this.”

Gareth riles; he is as good a fighter as Stannis, he knows how to handle a blade, but stops himself in time to keep from raising a fuss. He is not Lord Steffon’s son, and he promised to obey. 

Stannis straightens proudly at this, and immediately goes to fetch the sword Lord Steffon had forged for him for his last name day. Robert has been carrying live steel since he was twelve, if the tales are true; doubtless Stannis is thrilled to be following in his footsteps now. Gareth watches him go resentfully, then hurries to pack, wondering if Richard will be there. 

Despite his lord’s warnings, it is still a bit thrilling. This is a proper adventure, riding to the rescue of a King, seeing justice done. Much better than sitting around eating lemon cakes and listening to the harp, he reckons. 

They make good time to Duskendale, though the roads are busy; you would think there was a tourney to be had, so many people are coming and going from that direction. 

Only after the first few days, Gareth realizes that many of the common folk on the road, with their simple wagons and mules and lame old workhorses, are fleeing. Maybe not in a blind panic, but fleeing all the same, walking and riding for hours with all their family and worldly possessions to put as much distance between themselves and the town as possible.

“They won’t burn the town, will they?” Gareth asks Steffon one night around the fire; the flickering of the flames casts shadows on his broad, tanned face and makes his eyes dark as amethysts. 

“No,” he says, after a long moment. “No, the town will be spared.”

Gareth wonders, later that night, if his foster father was only saying that to keep him from worrying. But after tossing and turning for a time, he is able to fall asleep to the sound of Stannis’ quiet snores. 

Duskendale is not burning when they arrive; in fact, there are no signs of bloodshed or damage to the town at all, as they approach. The walls are well-manned and gates are opening and closing in an orderly fashion, though everyone entering and leaving is being questioned by guards. Not Darklyn guards; these men are not in red and yellow but blue and white, with a sigil of crossed black warhammers on their chests. 

Gareth can’t place the house at first, but Lord Steffon hails them as Rykker men; landed knights, he thinks, or are they lords now? The streets of Duskendale- all cobbled, and well-maintained, and many of the houses stone, not wood- are full of Rykker men, and Lannister men, and Targaryen men taken from the Red Keep’s own garrison. 

But no one else seems to be out and about. In fact the town is almost unnaturally quiet, Gareth gradually realizes, as their tired horses plod along. There are no townsfolk hawking their wares or exchanging pleasantries on the roads or in alleys, there are no merchants in the square, not even fishermen coming up from the docks. All of the businesses seem shuttered and closed, aside from the inn, and when he does see faces that don’t belong to soldiers or knights, they peek out warily from behind windows and doors, before they slam back shut. 

They’re terrified, he realizes then. The ones who haven’t fled are terrified, and that’s why the streets seem all but empty. 

The Dun Fort rises from a gentle hill at the center of town, overlooking the port. It’s not a very pretty castle; crude and square and grey, with big drum towers. More Rykker men dot the strong walls. So do heads. Many, many heads. Once he sees the first one, he averts his eyes. 

As they pass through the gates, Gareth is hit with a blast of smoke; they’re burning something. He rubs at his watering eyes as Lord Steffon dismounts, talking in hushed voices with Lord Staunton, who is here as Master of Laws, a tall, gaunt man with greying hair and a permanent glower.

“You should not have brought them,” he informs Steffon brusquely as Gareth and Stannis dismount, coughing from the smoke.

There’s a distant moaning sort of wail, a woman raising her voice in terror. 

Gareth puts a hand at his belt, but of course he doesn’t have live steel. Stannis stiffens, but glances at his father.

“When did Lord Tywin arrive?” Steffon is demanding of Staunton.

“Just after dawn,” Staunton replies. “He lent His Grace his own horse.”

“And where are they now?” Steffon has to raise his voice to be heard over another distant wail. 

“In the bailey.”

In the bailey, Gareth just looks and looks for a long while, because it takes a good bit for him to understand what he is seeing. 

There are people on the ground. Lots of people. At first he though they were praying, or sickly and dying, like in etchings of plague victims. Now he knows they aren’t sick, they are dead. They are lying on the ground where they were killed; they must have herded the entire household in here. There are guardsmen with spears still in hand, knights in armor, some only half dressed, there are servants- men and women in simple garb, a muted version of the Darklyn colors. That’s good, because the red makes it difficult to see the bloodstains for what they are. 

There are children, too. Gareth does not realize it at first because he does not want to, but then finds himself staring at a very small corpse half-covered by a cloak. A chubby little fist extends from underneath it, covered in flies. There are others, too. So many others. There is a dead woman sitting against a wall, her neck opened up, with her silent babe clutched to her chest. 

There are girls the age of his sisters- one is missing her shoes, as if she ran barefoot across the stones before she fell. There are little boys the age of his brothers, staring sightlessly at the cloudy summer sky overhead. There are many boys his age, too, halfway to men, but in death they all look very small, whether they are tall or short, stocky or skinny. 

He wonders why he did not smell them before, then realizes it was the smoke. At the center of the bailey, something burns and burns. Gareth stands beside Stannis, who has turned into a statue, and watches as the smoke temporarily clears- and then Lord Steffon is in front of them, blocking the view with his bulk. His face is blank with shock. Whatever he expected to find here, whatever justice he thought was being done, this was not it. Gareth knows that then. 

“Go back to the gatehouse,” he says. 

Gareth opens his mouth, but no words come out. Whatever is burning is moaning. He can hear it over the crackles, an undulating, keening moan, that then falls silent. Men are just standing around in watching. One or two are vomiting, others are white as sheets, but many are just standing and talking, whispering back and forth. Some even seem pleased. 

“Tore out her tongue,” someone is saying, almost jovially, as if discussing a mummer’s show. Gareth does not understand. “Then the other troublesome bits-,”

“GO,” Lord Steffon growls, his voice drowning out what the men are laughing about, and Gareth turns and goes, almost stumbling, knocking shoulders with Stannis as if they were both drunk. On the way out, he trips over something soft, and almost turns back to look, but Stannis grabs his arm and wrenches him along. 

The air is a bit clearer inside the gatehouse. They sit at a table in the corner. The room is all but deserted except for a few Rykker men playing cards, as if they did not know what was happening outside. Gareth feels he should say something, but does not know what. His tongue is useless in his mouth, and his throat is tight and aching. 

It’s just the smoke, he tells himself. He’s acting like a bloody craven. They were traitors. They knew the punishment for treason. They abused the King and threatened the realm. They were traitors. He pours himself a cup of water, but his hands are shaking so badly that it sloshes all over the table, seeping into the grimy wood. 

Stannis is studying the table top, head bent, brow furrowed. 

“The punishment for treason is beheading,” he says, after a moment. “But they were burning her.”

Gareth did not know- did not let himself know- that it was a her. 

“Who?” he asks, though that’s a silly question. He knows who.

“Lady Serala,” Stannis says. 

“But she didn’t commit treason,” Gareth says, trying to sip his water. “Her husband did.”

“Of course she did,” Stannis says. “She was his wife.”

“But- but she wasn’t Lord of Duskendale,” Gareth says. He can’t quite put it into words. He knows what it means for a lord to mete out justice. He has been to executions before. Not many, but a few, overseen by Lord Steffon. Father never took him to any before he went off to foster. 

When a man murders someone, or rapes a woman, you can execute him, or send him to the Wall, but you don’t send his whole family with him. If he has servants, you don’t kill them too, not unless there’s proof they had a part in it. What is the proof for the people of the Dunfort? Did every single dead man and woman mistreat the King? Even the children? The old, stooped men and women? 

Were they all guilty? How do you try an infant for treason? How do you say that the kitchen boys were as guilty as the knights who betrayed their vows? What about the laundresses? The stable grooms? The smith and the seamstress and the brewer, too?

“Why didn’t they just execute him and his knights? The- the servants didn’t do anything, they were just obeying their lord-,”

“Be quiet,” Stannis says, tersely, eyes darting around the dim room. Gareth realizes some of the Rykker men are looking at them, and not in a friendly manner. 

He stops talking. He doesn’t say anything else for hours, in fact. Not until Lord Steffon comes to collect them. 

His face and hair are shiny with sweat and his clothes are rumpled and stained with smoke. He doesn’t say much either, only tells them they are leaving. Immediately. They are not staying over in the town, they are changing their horses and going back on the road. Princess Rhaelle has taken a turn for the worse, and Lady Cassana needs them.

Only hours later, as Duskendale fades to a smear on the horizon behind them, does Gareth realize that is what Steffon had to say, to give them an excuse to leave without provoking offense. 

“How was the King?” he finally dares to ask when they stop to water their horses. 

Stannis is resting his head on Durrandon’s chest, breathing hard; they left the town at a canter, sending up clouds of dust after them.

“Poorly,” Lord Steffon says. That is all. Does that mean he is sick in bed? Suffering a wound? Gareth doesn’t know, and almost finds he does not care, because he can still smell the smoke, and hear the moans, and the crackle of the wood, and the buzzing of the flies. 

Some time later, they see Prince Rhaegar's party go racing past on the road, flanked by Connington, Lonmouth, and Mooton banners. Gareth looks for Richard, but they're moving too quickly.

It was not really a lie, what Steffon Baratheon told the King. When they return, Princess Rhaelle is very poorly, in her dying bed. Gareth is just the Rogers ward so he is not permitted into the room with the others, nor does he want to. He is fond of the princess but she is not his grandmother. He goes into his room instead, to write a letter. 

He already knows he will never, ever speak aloud of what he saw at Duskendale, so instead he only asks if he might be permitted to visit soon, when Lady Cassana’s confinement starts and the Baratheons are busy with a babe on the way. He knows Mother and Father will agree. He knows they will, but tears land on the parchment anyways, despite his best efforts to ignore them, wiping roughly at his face with his knuckles, and trying not to heave in his chair like a little boy. 

That was justice, he reminds himself sternly. He should not feel sorry for them. They knew the consequences. He cries anyways, and shames himself for it, until he has to put down his pen and lay his head on the cool surface of his desk in an effort to control his sobs. 

He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and behind his eyelids, peels back the ashen cloak from the small body. His little sister Myra looks up at him, dark eyes glassy in death, mouth slightly ajar in mute surprise. Something black is crawling on her lips. 

He pulls the cloak back, and turns away, away, until his mind is somewhere else, and the smoke and the flies fade away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes:
> 
> 1\. I didn't want to cover the entire six month period of Aerys being held captive and Tywin sitting on his hands going 'oh no... whatever shall we do... imagine if something tragic befell the king... how terrible...', so I did skip over most of it. To be fair, Gareth is not really a political player here, so it's not like he was doing much anyways. 
> 
> 2\. Obviously many, many people at court here seem to be sort of holding out hope that Aerys is going to be discovered to have died in Darklyn custody, so that Rhaegar, who is 18 and of age, can be immediately crowned king. Tywin is not necessarily rooting for this, as he has no guarantee that Rhaegar will keep him on as Hand or marry Cersei, but he's also not in too much of a rush to mount some grand all-out assault on Duskendale, either. So it's just been a lot of bickering and waiting around. Aerys can be unstable, but he's also elevated a lot of people into very high positions, and many of them are afraid that Rhaegar will do some house-cleaning when he is crowned and replaced them all.
> 
> 3\. In my head the Princess of Dorne looks a lot like Oberyn, while Doran and Elia take more after their father in appearance. It is very well known that she is rooting for Rhaegar to wed Elia, much to Tywin's displeasure. 
> 
> 4\. Cassana came to court with Rhaelle, who is dying, when it became obvious Steffon wasn't coming home anytime soon after Aerys' imprisonment. Consequently, she is now pregnant with Renly, after having struggled to have more children following Robert and Stannis for a very long time. I like to think Rhaelle has always had a special affection for Rhaella, and that she was opposed to the marriage of Rhaella and Aerys, wanting Rhaella to wed her son Steffon instead. 
> 
> 5\. We will be seeing a good bit of Jon Connington in this fic, but not through Gareth's POV. 
> 
> 6\. Stannis can be and often is a sexist little shit, but his views on bastard women as being a temptation to men are not uncommon among his peers. Gareth is also aware of this to an extent, and constantly insists that Leona is a 'good girl' to differentiate her from the misogynistic assumptions made about bastard girls in general, ie. that they are sexually available to any man, that they deliberately provoke men into pursuing them by being 'overly familiar', that they are immodest and driven by material greed and lust, etc. 
> 
> 7\. Gareth is very fortunate to have grown up with parents who love one another, who are openly affectionate with one another, and who demonstrate a healthy and mutually pleasing relationship to their children. Because of this he is quick to pick up on the fact that many Westerosi marriages are not like that, unfortunately.
> 
> 8\. While the arts and music are obviously highly valued among the nobility, it is not socially acceptable, in general, for lords and ladies to be going off to make their careers as artists or musicians. Flora's family is proud of her musical talents, but it is completely out of the question that she actually do it for a living. 
> 
> 9\. I do not want to include yet another women in ASOIAF dying in childbirth, so Lyarra died in a riding accident instead. 
> 
> 10\. Gareth has stumbled upon a big moral question for pretty much the first time, which is him struggling to define his own conception of justice, pretty much. He is not the only one shocked by the treatment of the Darklyn household; Steffon certainly expected to see Lord Denys and likely his wife and adult family members executed as well, but not the entire household and anyone even vaguely connected to the Darklyns slaughtered en masse. Nor was he expecting to see Lady Serala tortured and mutilated before being burned at the stake. 
> 
> 11\. Next chapter will be the first Julian POV, set in White Harbor.


	9. Julian I

278 AC - WHITE HARBOR

As a rule, Julian is not one for cities, so it truly says something about the current company that he is relieved, rather than disappointed, when White Harbor comes into view, flanked by the rushing White Knife on its western side, the vast hinterlands controlled by the Manderlys, Lockes, and a dozen or so minor houses to the east. It’s a sharp and cold autumn morn, the wind sweeping the long grasses almost horizontal as they join the thin procession of travelers and carts lining up for admittance. 

He can smell the sea, though, which does something to lift his mood, even if it looks nothing like the sea of his home. Julian could spend days listing all the things about the North that confounded him when he first came to Winterfell to ward, and the ocean is one of them. Like any proper Stormlander, he was raised to revere and fear the sea and its brutal beauty, but the brilliant blue coastlines off of the Rainwood are a far cry from the grey, jagged cliffs looking out over the Bite one can find here. 

Even the smell is different; brinier, almost, sharper, stinging in his nostrils and eyes, though maybe that’s just the wind. He can’t imagine what the Andals thought when they landed here to invade; White Harbor was likely no more than a little stone fishing town then, and-

“Dreaming of home, Andal?” Julian stiffens as Roger Ryswell leans over to clap him on the shoulder, grinning broadly. The Ryswells are all big and horsey, even the girls, though Julian can admit Barbrey is pretty in a cold, long-faced sort of way. He’s never seen much of the eldest, Bethany; she was married off to Roose Bolton a few years ago, and he’s not much one for travel, Roose. 

The rest of the Ryswells, though, are always trailing after Brandon like his own little herd. Julian dislikes them all, as a general rule. They’re loud, hotheaded, and share the same braying laughter and big hands and feet, which means most of the boys are better lancers than him. 

He doesn’t mind. Much. Gareth could always beat him in a proper joust, but Julian knows he’s better with the sword than the lance, and he’s a proper horseman on a hunt, when the real concern is speed and agility. 

“No,” he says coolly, edging away from Roger’s aggressive squeezing. “Why?”

“Well, this is where your forefathers landed!” Roger waves vaguely in the direction of the grey river leading out to the bay. “Maybe some of them were there with Argos Sevenstar, pissing themselves when the Hungry Wolf came down.”

Barbrey huffs and rolls her eyes, though a small smile plays on her lips as she shifts in the saddle, stroking her dun mare’s mane. Brandon is barely listening; he’s embroiled in the midst of a low argument with Lyanna, who’s been in a foul mood since they continued their ride south at dawn. 

At first Julian thought she just disliked the rainy weather that’s plagued them these past few weeks down from Winterfell. And it’ll be another three weeks back, unless the Manderlys put them on a barge a-ways up-river. But he doesn’t think it’s that; Lyanna is always eager to be out on the open road; she’s only been to White Harbor twice before and never any further from home than this. 

“Argos Sevenstar fought the northmen along the Weeping Water,” Julian says, breaking himself out of his pensive thoughts in order to wipe that smirk off Roger’s face. “Not the White Knife. But maybe they look more or less the same to you, Ryswell.”

Roger recoils in annoyance. “It was just a bloody jape, Rogers. What crawled up your arse and died?” he grumbles, but the line is moving, and the merchants behind them are complaining about the hold-up. 

Julian chews on his lower lip as they approach the gates, trying to ignore the heat in his face. When he came here he was sun-tanned and swarthy like a proper Stormlander, but now he’s evened out to a more pallid shade. On the one hand, it gets him less comments about how he doesn’t look northern, at least until he opens his mouth and they hear his accent. He tries to shake it sometimes, but it’s always there. 

Maybe Roger was just joking with him, and he overreacted. Brandon says he’s too prickly by far, and he’s not the only one, but whenever Julian tries to loosen up, he feels like he walks right into some grand jape or torment. 

It’s not that his cousins have ever mistreated or been cruel to him. Brandon mostly treats him the way he does Benjen; like a bothersome but occasionally amusing younger brother he needs to look out for and menace in equal measure, and Lyanna and him regularly butt heads but can sometimes have a civil conversation about dogs or horses or hunting.

It’s just that- it would be one thing if he was also the heir to a Great House, like Brandon. If he was like Robert Baratheon, or even a younger brother of such a family, like Stannis. But he’s not. He’s the second son of a minor lord most people in the North have never even heard of, even among the nobility. He stands to inherit nothing. He’s only even here because his mother was a Stark who married almost embarrassingly far beneath her station. 

And no one has ever let him forget it. Even his cousins, even his uncle. They care for him, he knows that, but he’s always been a bit of an afterthought. Oh, there’s Julian. The Rogers boy. No, not the heir, he’s with the Baratheons. Yes, Branda insisted…We’ll see what can be done for him. 

Uncle Rickard seems to like him, has always praised his work in his lessons, his riding and his hunting and his swordplay. But what does that really amount to? Julian can’t just demand lands from the warden of the North, and he can’t negotiate his own marriage, nor would he want to. 

The guards at the gate are waving them in, all smiles and bows for the heir to Winterfell and his highborn companions. Some people in the crowd and on the ramparts have recognized Brandon, sitting tall and dashing in the saddle, smiling easily to reveal his straight white teeth, his dark hair ruffled by the wind and his cloak fashionably disarrayed over his broad shoulders. 

He was tall and strong for his age when Julian came here three years ago, and since reaching his majority he’s only gotten taller and stronger, and more beloved. Every man wants to be his friend, his confidante, and every woman wants to partner with him in a dance or watch him spar in the yard. 

Julian sometimes marvels, not quite resentfully, but in genuine wonder, at how someone like Brandon goes through life with such… ease. No concerns at all. No hesitation. No doubts. He expects things to go well for him, and they do. Always. 

Gates glide open, girls smile and blush, boys cheer and laugh at all his japes. In that sense he reminds Julian of Gareth. Everything has always been easy for Gareth, too. He might not be as handsome or renowned as Brandon but he is still the golden heir, the firstborn son, the strongest, the tallest, open-handed and popular and charming in a sheepish sort of earnest way, you’d almost think it was all an act. 

The most infuriating thing is that it isn’t. It’s just who they are. Who Julian feels he will never be, even if he grows another five inches in between now and the age of twenty, even if his shoulders broaden out, even if girls look at him with something other than bemusement and pity. 

“Keep your reins in hand, Rogers,” Will Dustin tells him, as they enter the city proper, their horses clattering over the neat, cobbled streets. “Easy for a horse to spook around here.”

Willam is trying to be helpful, but Julian can’t help but bristle. “I’ve been to White Harbor before,” he mutters- though only once, on a trip with his uncle shortly after his family left him here- but Will has already turned away, making some cheering comment to Lyanna, who tries and fails to maintain her glower, and cracks into a rueful grin. 

“I’ll race you to the docks,” she suggests, straightening a little and lifting her reins, her horse cocking its head in anticipation, but Brandon gives her a look. 

“Father will beat me bloody if he finds out I let you have a horse race through the city,” he says, shaking his head. “Peace, Lya. You can have all the races you like on the way back home.”

She sighs and shoots Julian a look, as if she expects him to jump to her defence. Julian gives her a look that destroys any hope of that. 

Lyanna has been wild and restless since Aunt Lyarra- well, since she passed away. Everyone knows it. Uncle Rickard is at his wit’s end, and that’s got to be at least part of why he wrote to Mother and offered to finance Flora and Septa Dybele’s travel up here, because he thought Lyanna ‘wanted for feminine company’. 

The other part of it, they all know but are not saying, is because Rickard Stark has always planned on a southron match for his only daughter, and that means she’d best be tutored by a septa, if he wants to marry her into a house that follows the Faith. Two birds, one stone. Lyanna must know what’s in store for her; Julian doesn’t think she could be that oblivious, but he’s not stupid enough to bring it up with her. She’s never been one for talk of marriage, and he’s never even known her to have a crush. 

Most boys their age- well, her age, she’s three years younger than him, though she likes to pretend she’s not- are more scared of her than anything else. Julian would be, too. No one wants to play at kissing games with a girl who’s known to sneak off to play at swords or horse racing whenever she has the spare time. Once Julian even found her practicing with one of his lances. He threatened to tell his uncle- he was mostly joking- and she socked him so hard in the gut he couldn’t stand up straight for a few moments. 

“Fine,” Lyanna says, “give us the proper tour, Brandon.” 

She waves her brother ahead like a general dismissing a scout, and Brandon barks a laugh, and takes the lead, Barbrey Ryswell surging ahead to join him, with a haughty toss of her head that makes the iron temple rings attached to her linen hair kerchief clink together like coins. 

Julian watches them sourly; it’s blatantly obvious to anyone with half a brain that Barbrey is besotted with Brandon, who seems to revel in her attention. It’s one thing to watch most girls fawn over him, but Barbrey is different- sharper and snider by far, you’d think she’d be mocking Brandon’s casual arrogance, not petting it like a dog.

“You’re not excited?” Will Dustin has turned back to him, his broad face dusted with golden brown freckles, his half-lidded eyes crinkled in a lazy smile. There is something inherently likable about Willam, even if you didn’t know him; he’s got feathery dirty blonde hair, a stocky, barrel-chested build for a boy of fifteen, and an easy, down-to-earth nature, even if he is heir to one of the most powerful houses in the North. “To see your sister again? It’s been a long time.”

That sends a jolt of shame through Julian; he almost ducks his head like a child. “I am,” he says, though he feels like he’s insisting in vain. “I just- yes, I am. It’s been a while. She was just a little girl when I last saw her.”

She’s still just a little girl- Florence is only Lyanna’s age, eleven, but in his head she’s still younger than that, a skinny, scrappy little eight year old with a squealing voice and stringy brown hair. He loves her, but he can’t say they spent so much time together before he went to ward; he was either with Gareth or the other boys, not playing with dolls or pretending to be a princess or whatever it is Flora liked to do. 

Hopefully she’s a bit less silly these days. He’ll never live it down if his sister arrives like some fainting southron waif, unable to cope with the cold weather, gloomy landscape, and the- well, their food isn’t so bad, Julian’s used to it by now, but the first few months were rough, he will admit. They certainly don’t season it the same way as they do in the Stormlands. 

“Sisters can be difficult,” Will agrees. “Mine’s so much older, I barely see her at all. She was married by the time I was ten.” The Dustins only have two children who lived past infancy; Willam, who is heir, and his elder sister Robyn, who married into one of the mountain clans years ago. 

“My cousin Leona is three years elder than me,” Julian says, as they round another corner, cutting through a busy courtyard with a burbling fountain, headed for the harbor gate, “but she’s not married yet. At least, I don’t think she is.” 

He doubts there will be much fanfare when it happens. People generally don’t proudly announce the marriages of bastards. And Leona, if he’s being honest, has always been very prissy for one. Or maybe it’s just that she and Gareth always had such an easy time together, laughing and smiling at private jokes, that he always felt left out, following after them. 

“Ah,” says Will. “Well, little sisters might be easier than big ones, I don’t know.”

“I do,” Brandon calls back over his shoulder. “They’re not. Far worse, in fact.”

Lyanna tries to reach over and swat him, but he trots off, chuckling to himself, while Barbrey smirks. Lyanna pulls an ugly face at her, and Barbrey rolls her eyes at her childishness, slipping off one glove to expose her fine white hand to clench her reins as she pursues Brandon down the lane, around a cart piled high with fish from the harbor. 

Julian feels a brief spark of apprehension as the docks come into view, full of white-sailed ships bobbing in the waves, surrounded by sailors and dockworkers rushing to and thro, shepherding passengers onto dry land and unloading endless crates and barrels. The waves rocking against the quay aren’t as rough as he’s seen them on other days, but he imagines it might be a far cry from the idyllic port Flora and Septa Dybele might have left behind at Amberly. 

Shipbreaker Bay is notoriously dangerous, especially in the autumn and winter years, but Amberly’s inlet is usually quite calm, though they get the odd storm. There’s no fleet there, though, just local fishing boats and the odd merchant vessel headed up the coast to ply their wares at Storm’s End or Tarth. 

White Harbor has no real navy, but it is a much busier harbor than anything his sister will have seen before, and Julian feels a pang of concern as he scans the docked ships. What if her ship isn’t even here yet? What if it got caught up in storms along the Bite, and had to take repairs at the The Three Sisters? What if it wrecked? 

There is a lump in his throat until he spots the familiar prow of a Stormlander vessel; distinct for its figurehead carved in the shape of Elenei; almost all ships native to the Stormlands bear some variation of the goddess who gave up her immortality to reign as Durran’s earthly queen. 

“There,” he says, pointing, and almost proud of how everyone turns to see where he is gesturing without poking fun at him. “There’s the Seafoam Maid.”

Julian dismounts easily, slipping down from the saddle, and starts making his way through the crowd without waiting for anyone’s approval or leave. The Ryswell siblings and Will stay on horseback, looking with distaste over the grubby ground of the port, the smell of rotting fish and wood mixed with brine and rum and smoke from the braziers set up for sailors to warm their wet, cold hands over. But Brandon and Lyanna follow him, along with several guards of House Stark, who shoot nasty looks at anyone who stares at the Stark siblings for too long, especially foreigners. 

Lyanna has refused to admit any excitement or anticipation of her cousin coming, though the last time his family were here, she and Flora seemed close as sisters. Julian thinks she is upset about the septa, and the insinuation that she needs curbing, or that Florence will be a good, docile, southron influence on her. Lyanna doesn’t like the idea of being influenced or swayed; she’s too bloody stubborn, maybe even more so than Brandon. She and Julian have that much in common. 

But now she seems eager, darting ahead, slipping over the slick stones and ignoring Brandon’s shouts to watch her footing, lest she topple into the water. 

Julian finds his own pace quickening, his gaze roving the crowd, and then he sees Florence, who looks very green around the gills but otherwise safe and sound, standing nervously on one of the docks, her luggage piled up around her and Septa Dybele, who is sitting on a trunk. Unlike Flora, she doesn’t look a bit queasy; she looks like she might really be sick, and her face is flushed, her habit worn and ragged. 

“FLORA!” Julian shouts, standing up on his tiptoes and waving his arms above his head. 

Flora looks around- it helps that her name is not at all common in the North- squints in their direction, and brightens. She starts hurrying towards them, then wobbles, clearly still trying to grow used to being back on land after three weeks at sea. 

“Go get her before she gets herself drowned,” Brandon says, sounding genuinely concerned Florence might faint in a heap on top of a passing cabin boy. 

Julian is also concerned; he can only imagine how embarrassing that would be for him. Roger would never let him hear the end of it. 

He makes his way over to his younger sister, grabbing her by the arms to steady her. Flora is still skinny and coltish; three years have only made her face longer, and he forgot how pale she was, compared to him. Her eyes are wide and grey, so similar to Lyanna’s, only a little lighter, and her plain brown hair is tucked under a worn linen cap embroidered with amber beadwork. 

“You’re here!” she says, as if she’d worried he wouldn’t come, and promptly throws her arms around him, squeezing him so tightly he thinks he might burst. To his dismay, three years has also given his younger sister a growth spurt; while not as tall as him, she is an inch or so over five feet, lanky for a girl of eleven. 

“Of course I am,” he manages to rasp out, when he can catch his breath, then wrinkles his nose at the smell. He doesn’t know if it’s just from the ship, but she’s in dire need of a bath. 

Flora seems to notice this, and flushes, wiping quickly at her face and arranging her cap as she steps forward awkwardly to greet their cousins. 

“Brandon,” she ducks her head, looking uncertain as to whether or not she should curtsy to Brandon now that he is of age, and then smiles nervously at Lyanna. “Lyanna. It’s- I was so grieved to hear about Aunt Lyarra,” she settles on. “We all were. I've prayed to the Seven for you, especially the Mother.”

It’s probably the worst thing she could have said, Julian thinks dismally. What do they want with her southron prayers? 

He has not been inside a sept in three years; not that Uncle Rickard forbid him, but the nearest sept to Winterfell is a tiny shack in Torrhen’s Square, and Julian left off most of his old prayers and rituals within months of arriving in the North. 

They only made people give him little sidelong looks, and it wasn’t worth it. He much prefers his mother’s gods, anyways, and if Father wanted him to be a loyal follower of the Seven, he shouldn’t have sent him to ward with the Starks. 

The Seven seem a womanly sort of gods to him now, years later. A proper warrior has no cause to pray; he already knows a battle can only end two ways. Julian can’t imagine what other god he’d have cause to pray to, anyways. He feels more at home before a heart tree; there is no expectation, no pressure upon him, just silence, and those haunting, sappy red eyes. 

“Thank you, cousin,” Brandon says, civilly, at least, but Lyanna has looked away, a scowl playing on her lips, and the wind tugging on the end of her long braid. 

When her brother prods at her, she says, tersely, “Welcome to the North, cousin Florence.”

Flora’s face falls so rapidly Julian almost winces at the sight. But it’s her own fault! What, did she think they’d want to be reminded that their mother died six months ago the moment she arrived? 

Julian can still remember that day, though it makes him sick to think of it. Aunt Lyarra was here one moment, laughing and smiling, complimenting Lyanna’s hawking, and then gone the next. 

Julian didn’t see it happen exactly; he was playing a game with Benjen, who was visiting from Oldcastle, where he is now as a ward of House Locke, but he heard it, that awful scream of horse and woman, and Lyanna’s wail after a terrible beat of silence. Lyanna would not even speak for days afterwards. Julian overheard Brandon discussing it with Martyn Cassel, once. 

“She blames herself,” he’d said, shaking his head. “It was an accident. Everyone knows that. Father knows that. Mother was riding hard and she didn’t realize the trail had given way. It could have happened to anyone. It’s not Lya’s fault, but she thinks she distracted her, somehow, that if she hadn’t been there, Mother would-,” he’d stopped and could say no more after that, his voice closed up with pain. 

Julian doesn’t think anyone blames Lyanna for what happened to Aunt Lyarra. How could they? It was an accident. A terrible, unfortunate accident. She didn’t make the horse fall, and her mother go down underneath it. 

But he knows what it’s like to blame yourself, even when it doesn’t make any sense. He used to think that about his parents sending him to ward. Gareth is so much closer, and he’s always been Father’s favorite, just like how Flora is Mother’s; the eldest son and eldest daughter. Gareth can visit home anytime he likes, Storm’s End isn’t so far from Amberly, but Winterfell…

“Where are we going?” He blinks, coming back to himself. Flora is tugging on his arm, looking around, wide-eyed, as Brandon chivalrously helps Septa Dybele onto his horse. It’s just like Brandon. Any other northman might get the odd mocking jeer, to be seen riding by with a septa in front of him in the saddle, but not Brandon. Any woman on a horse with him looks like some sort of regal lady, just from mere proximity. 

“New Castle,” he says, leading his sister over to his own gelding. “We’ll stay with the Manderlys for a day or two, and Brandon will charm them into letting us one of their barges.”

Flora pulls a face. “I don’t want to be back on a boat,” she complains, shivering as the wind picks up. 

Julian looks over her clothes in exasperation. He knows Mother will have sent her with plenty of warm things, she knows how cold it is up here, but of course Flora is still wearing a thin summer gown and slippers right now, like she’s here for a day trip to the seashore. This isn’t Bronzegate. 

“Well, do you want to be in the saddle for three weeks?” he demands, helping her up into the saddle. To his relief, she doesn’t flail or struggle; she was just learning how to ride properly when he left Amberly, but now she seems adept enough. That’s good, he was dreading having to tutor his sister in riding just to keep up with everyone else.

A lady who can’t ride in the North is looked at like some kind of cripple. A few of them, like Barbrey, even ride astride, when they can get away with it. Lyanna’s always bragging she could ride bareback if she wanted, but even she isn’t bold enough to try it in front of her father. 

“It’s a three week ride?” Flora is aghast as he climbs up behind her. “What about the Kingsroad?”

“It’s still three weeks on the Kingsroad, we have the whole hinterlands to cover,” he says wearily. “But if we can get a barge up the White Knife, that’ll cut it down by half, we can land at the fork, ride the rest of the way. So mind your manners around the Manderlys.”

Flora seems a bit appeased by this, then asks, loudly, as they start up from the harbor, “Aren’t they Seven worshippers?”

Roger Ryswell snorts but says nothing, while Barbrey shoots her a little look and says, in that arch way of hers, “Yes, they are. Their ancestors settled here from the Reach, after they were driven from their home. Our very own Shield of the Faith.” Her sarcastic tone suggests there isn’t much to shield.

“They’ll have a sept, then,” Flora says. “Septa Dybele wants us to thank the gods for our safe crossing.”

“Septa Dybele should be praying for relief, I think,” Will mutters. He has a point; the woman looks like she’s about to vomit. The jostling of horseback combined with sea legs doesn’t seem good for her. 

“She was running a fever last night,” Flora says, playing with the reins in her hands. “I think their maester should look at her. She has a chill.”

“She’ll be running many more, if a little cold is all it takes,” Barbrey says reprovingly. 

Julian sighs, but to his surprise, Flora bites back. 

“I’m sorry, my lady,” his sister says sweetly. “I had not made your acquaintance as I should. Let’s be friends.” He feels her straighten and lift her chin haughtily. “I am Florence Rogers, daughter of Harrold Rogers, Lord of Amberly, and Lady Branda, of House Stark. Her father was Rodrik the Wanderer and her mother was Arya of Clan Flint. And you are a Ryswell, I think?”

Barbrey stares at her for a moment, shocked, then allows, “I am Barbrey Ryswell, Lord Rodrik’s second daughter. This is my brother, Roger-,” Roger smiles, horsey as ever, “-and Willam Dustin, heir to Barrowtown.”

“Well met,” Will takes Flora’s hand in his own large one, and even gives it an enthusiastic shake. 

She giggles, the cold spell broken, and then breaks into easy chatter.

Despite his annoyance, Julian can’t help but be a little impressed. Flora is delicate and frivolous, but she’s not dull, either, and she’s never been shy. That’s good. If she was shy the Starks would walk all over her. They don’t do ‘shy’, as a rule. 

Julian has been to New Castle before, but is always struck by how pale it looks, even compared to a mostly white-washed city. Airier and taller than Amberly, but still tiny compared to Winterfell, like a fragile cocoon, it sits high on the hill that keeps the Wolf’s Den, a much more ancient castle turned prison, in its shadow for most hours of the day. 

Flora looks on in wonder at the sea green merman flying at all corners, flapping proudly in the strong wind off the gullet, and once they reach the summit, the city is spread out around them, some thirty thousand inhabitants all going about their days, listening to the cawing of gulls overhead and the bells tolling in some sept to announce the changing of the hour. 

“Welcome to Merman’s Court,” one of the guards tells Flora, who lights up even more. 

“It’s just like in the stories of Elenei,” she leans around to tell Julian eagerly, almost bashing his nose in with her head. “She was born in the court under the sea, in a bed of coral and weeds-,”

“Don’t talk about Elenei so much,” he tries to tell her- does she want everyone thinking she’s addled?- but then she’s distracted all over again by the sight of the gleaming silver tridents carried by the guards at the entrance to the hall. 

By the time they dismount, Flora is all jittery with nerves, and forgets about Lyanna’s earlier coldness towards her to grab her cousin by the hand. 

“What does it look like inside? Is it like the inside of a ship?” she whispers, again, too loudly, as they enter. 

Julian watches warily, but to his surprise Lyanna softens slightly, and doesn’t yank her hand away from Flora in annoyance. Instead she seems to be almost bolstered by the thought of being the knowledgeable one- it’s not like anyone much asks for her opinion, as the only girl- and she leads Flora ahead, pulling her close to whisper back and forth, their heads bent together. 

The Manderlys’ wood-paneled hall is surprisingly warm and cozy, compared to the cold, regal architecture of the outside of the castle, and the painted panels and floorboards might remind Flora of home, he thinks, even if they are not illuminated- only the frescos on the ceiling are. 

The glass in the tall windows is all pale sea green, casting a warm, watery sort of light throughout the hall, and Flora has to be tugged along, she keeps stopping to gawk at the mermaids, sea monsters, eels and sharks peering down suspiciously at her from every corner. 

“There’s nets in the rafters!” she cries out at one point, and Julian looks up, having never thought to have done so before; there are old nets strung up there, all painted silver, and stained black from fire smoke. 

“So there are,” booms the fat old man on the throne, and Lord Wyman Manderly rises, hands on his belly, as he steps down from the dais. “Brandon Stark, what a sight you are,” he comes over to embrace Brandon like a son, clapping him on the back, though Brandon is a head taller than him already, and kisses Lyanna on the cheek, though she winces at the bristle of his mustache and beard. 

“Lady Barbrey, you grow lovelier by the day, as my sons will be sure to tell you,” he tells one Ryswell, and to the other, “Roger, you’ve become a big strong man, this past year. Tell your father to respond to my letters, he’s terribly late. And Willam- ah, come here,” he ruffles Willam’s hair. “The pride of the Barrowlands, is that right?”

“So they say,” Will grins, even as he fixes his hair. 

Flora curtsies low. “Lord Manderly, thank you for your hospitality. It’s an honor to meet you.”

At least she got that bit right, though now Julian has to bow, too. 

“The Rogers kin,” Wyman strokes his beard, examining them. “You, my girl, have the Stark look,” he tells Flora. “You and dear Lyanna could be sisters, I swear it. And Julian… not giving Lord Stark too much trouble, I hope? Three sons are more than enough to turn a man grey before his time, never mind a ward!”

Julian swallows. “No, my lord. I don’t believe I’m much trouble.”

“Julian’s not trouble,” Brandon scoffs. “Though sometimes he wishes he were.”

Julian reddens as Barbrey and Roger laugh. 

“My brother isn’t troublesome at all, only he has a terrible temper,” Flora informs Lord Wyman. Julian could throttle her. 

“It’s that hot southron blood,” Wyman winks at her in a fatherly manner. “I should know, sweetling, I come from similar stock, if you go back far enough. But I like to think the North has cooled us off! Well- shall it be bread and salt, then fish and wine?”

Julian will give the Manderlys this; they may be obnoxious, but they are always generous hosts, and Brandon does not have to prod for Wyman Manderly to quickly assure them they will be his guests for the next few days so they might recover from their travel, and that they will have the pick of barges up the river when they wish to return to Winterfell. He insists his own maester inspect Septa Dybele, who seems a bit better after eating, but still pale and shaky.

And, unfortunately, he gives Julian and Flora adjoining rooms. While Julian could simply lock the connecting door and ignore his sister’s shrill complaints, he’s not that callous, and instead takes a bath to prolong the inevitable, which is Florence bursting into his rooms, wanting to tell him all about her travel. 

True to form, he is still toweling off his hair, though he’s mercifully clothed, when she does. 

“We had clear weather all the way until we were in the north of Shipbreaker Bay, and then we had to dock at Tarth for two nights to wait it out,” she informs him, combing through her own hair so energetically he wonders if her scalp is numb. “Septa Dybele didn’t want us to stay overnight on the ship because some of the sailors brought back whores, but the captain said if we got off they might leave without us, so she wouldn’t let me leave the cabin at all!”

Julian thinks that was wise of Septa Dybele, but thinks it wiser to hold his tongue, because Flora hates nothing more than to be interrupted while recounting a tale. 

“And then we had smooth sailing all the way up into the Narrow Sea, though they wouldn’t stop over at Sharp Point so we could see the cousins, either, but I saw dolphins! They followed the ship all day and I stood on the deck and sang for them,” she informs him, proudly, as she works through another strand of hair, wrinkling her nose. 

Julian tries not to look amused at the thought of Flora singing to dolphins. Flora sings everywhere and anywhere. She has a good voice, but she won’t have much of one left by the time she’s six-and-ten if she keeps up like this. She’s always giving herself sore throats from all her constant chatter and songs. 

“And then we sailed past Dragonstone, and through the mists, and I could see shapes in them. I even saw the ghosts of the dragons,” she tells him, very serious. “You can hear them roaring at night.”

“Flora, that’s the wind off the rocks and reefs,” he says under his breath.

“It could be ghosts,” she points out.

“Ghosts aren’t real.”

“That shows how much you know, Julian Rogers,” she scoffs, but doesn’t argue with him further, continuing the rest of her tale. 

“The weather was horrible again once we passed Claw Isle, and we stopped in Gulltown to trade, and Septa Dybele took me to the sept there, and we looked at their engravings collection because one of the girls she was in motherhouse with is a septa there now.”

Julian could not care less about the engravings of the Seven Flora pondered over in Gulltown, but his sister is devout in the Faith- more accurately, Flora is devout in just about anything you tell her, she’s so gullible, but she prefers the Seven, he knows, because those pretty books of blessed men and women with the gilded letters and the rainbow crystals of a sept appeal to her more than the quiet solitude of a godswood. She’d best get used to the silence, because there aren’t any crystals or holy books lying around Winterfell for her to gawk at. 

“And then we had to go around the Fingers,” she wrinkles her nose again, though she’s finished with her hair; there’s not much to comb through, though his sister wears it long and nearly to her waist; it’s not as thick as their mother’s, and doesn’t have much of a wave to it, to her eternal dismay. “They’re so ugly. It’s just rocks and hills. And sheep. And seals.”

“You’re not going to like the Stony Shore much then,” he mutters, but she ignores him. 

“Anyways, and then we stopped over again at The Three Sisters, and Septa made us visit another motherhouse, and I donated some of the money Grandmother gave me before I left,” she brags. “It was a motherhouse for orphans, so they don’t become thieves and whores.”

“You shouldn’t say whores,” Julian says. “You should say disreputable women, or bawds, if you must.”

“I bet you say it,” she scowls.

“That’s different, I’m a man- anyhow, how much did you give them?” he asks, suddenly alarmed. Uncle Rickard is taking over paying Septa Dybele’s wages for her educating both Lyanna and Flora- she must be thrilled at the raise in pay- but Flora was supposed to bring enough coin to see her sufficiently outfitted for at least a year.”

“Not that much,” she says, reproachful. “It was just the purse from Grandmother. I have more.”

“How many purses did you bring with you?” he demands.

“Three. Father made Septa Dybele keep the other two on her, in her chest, under her books and robes.”

“Good,” he relaxes slightly. “Well, you’re here now.”

Flora arches an eyebrow at him. 

“What?”

She arches both eyebrows. 

“I’m glad you’re here. And safe,” Julian says, frowning. It’s not a lie, he just doesn’t see why he should have to say it aloud. She’s his sister. He has to love her. He doesn’t have a choice. 

“Don’t sound so excited about it, Jules,” she teases, sticking out her lower lip.

“I’m not,” he whips his towel at her, sending a spray of water into her face.

Flora recoils with a shout. “Ay! Beast!”

“What, I thought you liked the sea,” he teases, splashing some more from the half-empty tub at her.

“I just put on dry clothes, Julian!”

“I thought you missed me so much, Flora!”

“Not anymore!” She lobs a pillow at his head and runs into the adjoining room, giggling. 

He is in a better mood by the time he dresses for dinner, he’ll admit. Flora can be irritating and tiresome and she’s awfully thin-skinned, but she is still his sister, and as much as they fight, it’s good to no longer be the only Rogerses here. Besides, with her here to be Lyanna’s companion, Brandon won’t be able to foist Julian off on his sister anymore. 

Julian is tired of being left behind with the women and girls while Brandon and Roger Ryswell and Will Dustin race off and have adventures and get into splendid sorts of trouble. He’ll be of age in two short years, and his wardship will be over; he wants to leave some sort of mark while he still has the chance. 

When he meets Flora in the hall, he’s relieved that she’s wearing a more practical, significantly warmer gown; it looks new, so it must have been made just before she left Amberly. He recognizes his mother and grandmother’s needle work along the sleeves and collar, and the forest green goes well with his dark grey tunic, which is embroidered in a green spiral pattern meant to resemble their sigil. 

“You look older when you’re all dressed up,” she tells him, linking her skinny arm resolutely with his.

Julian straightens in pride. “I do.”

“You look like Gareth, only short and skinnier,” she continues, and he scowls, not that Flora notices, as she keeps up a running dialogue all the way to the Manderlys’ feasting hall. 

When they arrive, Brandon and Lyanna are standing off to the side, huddled around something. Lyanna turns around, sees him, and breaks into a broad grin, the likes of which Julian hasn’t seen on her in a while. She opens her mouth to stay something, but Brandon clamps his hand over it, ignoring her flailing, and moves her aside. 

“Surprise!” Flora tugs eagerly on his hand. 

Julian stares at the surprise, which is a small, slender puppy, perhaps a few months old, with an elongated head and pricked ears. Its tail curves up in a ring, much like their dogs at home, but this one is already as big as Argy or Orys, and clearly not even halfway grown, and the fur is much closer cropped, creamy white in color. 

“Father and Mother sent him up with Septa Dybele and I,” Flora tugs him over; in his mute shock, he just follows. “For your name day. Even though it was a long time ago, now.”

“Is this what the dogs look like in your lands?” Roger Ryswell is scoffing, but Julian doesn’t even hear him. He crouches down, and lets the pup sniff at his hand. He recognizes the breed; he’s a Stormlands hunting hound, and everyone knows- well, all the Stormlanders know- they breed the best hunting and tracking dogs in Westeros, though it’s true every kingdom claims that. 

“I called him Storm on the ship,” Flora says doubtfully, as Julian scratches the dog behind the ears, “but I suppose you’ll want to change the name. Just don’t name him anything too bloody, Jules.”

Julian scoops up the wriggling dog; he’s very quiet, despite his obvious excitement, and holds him against his chest, ignoring the fact that the hair will stand out against his dark clothing. 

Lyanna has extricated herself from Brandon, and gives him a pat. “I think he looks like a Ned,” she says, smirking at Brandon, who snorts. 

“I’m not naming him Ned,” Julian rolls his eyes. 

“What about Argos?” Barbrey asks dryly. “Or Theon?”

“All my father’s dogs are just named for servants,” Willam says, then shrugs at the looks tossed his way. “What?”

The puppy licks under his chin; Julian lets himself break into a rare, jubilant smile. “I know his name,” he says, and can’t help the devilish gleam in his eyes when he looks back up. “His name is Warg.”

“Warg?” Flora asks incredulously. “Wait until I write Father.”

“It’s a good name,” Brandon says, in between chuckles. “No, I like it-,”

“Warg,” Lyanna says, and presses a quick, unladylike kiss to Warg’s wet snout. 

Barbrey grimaces in disgust. 

“He was born in the south, but he’ll be a proper northman soon enough,” Julian sets Warg back down, and is pleased at how the dog immediately follows where he moves, angling his body in that direction. “So he’s Warg. He’ll have the blood of the First Men, no matter his birth.”

When they eat that night, he feeds Warg from his own plate, under the table, lets him lick grease off his fingers, and then thinks that he’s getting so many scraps, he’ll be a fat little beast unless Julian takes him out every single morn. He resolves to do just that, before they’re cooped up on a boat. He can take Warg down to the waterfront, have him track scents there, and reward him with fish.

Despite his best efforts to restrain himself, he smiles through the meal, and barely tastes the food, he is so caught up in his gift. It must have cost no small sum to buy the dog from a good breeder and arrange for his passage all the way here; ships are not known for taking on dogs unless they’re there to catch rats. 

That Father thought of him in this- and he has no doubt Mother encouraged it, she loves animals- well, it’s not what he expected, and he’s surprised at the warmth in his chest from the gesture, like he’d just drunk steaming hot cider by the barrel.

When he returns to his room, Warg goes straight to a warm spot on the furs before the fire, and immediately falls asleep, tail twitching in his dreams, and Julian stays up and writes home, the words flowing more enthusiastically than in all the months before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Notes:
> 
> 1\. So here is Julian! He is obviously very different from his older brother haha. I would say that Julian is a very biased POV, so take everything he says with a grain of salt. He is desperate to fit in and this causes this very reductive North versus South war in his head, where he feels like he has to toss aside his Rogers heritage to be accepted as part of the Stark family. He also has a very stereotypical view of the North and its culture in some ways, and his views should not be taken as 'fact' as to what all his peers believe. He makes a lot of assumptions and snap judgments. 
> 
> 2\. Just to clarify the ages, Julian is about 13/14 here, while Brandon is about 16, Lyanna is about 11, etc. Julian is at that awkward stage where he wants to fit in with the older teens but it still treated like a little kid a lot of the time.
> 
> 3\. Lyarra only died about 6 months ago, so the Starks are still very much grieving their mother, especially Lyanna, as the only girl and right in that terrible beginning of puberty stage where most girls would really like to have their mother there for support. 
> 
> 4\. The type of dog Warg is in irl is a Cretan Hound. They're extremely old in terms of breeds and they're very good at hunting and tracking. The Rogerses children all like animals, but Julian especially is a big dog person and loves hunting. 
> 
> 5\. Julian does feel neglected at times by his family but I wanted to show that they obviously do love him and want him to be happy, which is sometimes hard to keep in perspective as a 14 year old. 
> 
> 6\. This was a pretty chill chapter but I hope it didn't feel too much like filler, more drama is happening next chapter, which will be a Gareth POV back at Storm's End. I wanted to establish the Stark family dynamic and show what Julian and Flora's relationship with their cousins is like.


End file.
